Nice, Antibes, and Marseille (again): A Very, Very Nice Ending

After some hectic arrivals in other cities, my arrival in Nice on Tuesday was a breeze–despite the fact that I wasn’t able to eat breakfast or get coffee before my bus left Marseille. Luckily, my the Hostel Ozz in Nice was in the middle of the city center–about a 20 minute walk from the old town–so finding my daily croissant and espresso on my walk to old town was fairly easy.

I think I have a had a croissant or tartine every day of my France portion of my trip. As those seem to be prominent choices for the French, I am basically a local when it comes to breakfast.

When I studied abroad in Vienna, my German teacher spent an entire class period explaining the difference between a trip and a vacation. A trip is when you go somewhere but your schedule is jam packed as you are fitting in the tourist highlights–museums, tours, etc.–of a city. A vacation, by contrast, is leisurely, there’s no plan and probably a beach. Nice was the “vacation” part of my itinerary.

I spent my first morning in Nice getting lost in the windy streets of Old Town with no real plan. This is probably my favorite activity in Europe. Aside from eating. Wandering the streets, popping in and out of shops, turning down a random alley that piques my interest–there is always something new to explore. As a writer, it’s really great for my imagination as stories abound with people milling about among the sights, smells, and sounds of the area. And, you never know who you’re going to meet.

Steps to Old Town Nice

Nice is a very artistic city, having been home to Matisse and welcomed many artists to its colorful shores. Now, the old town has many artist galleries mixed with boutiques and tourist shops on the streets, often with clever signs in the windows. One such shop was a wine store where the window sign read “En cas de dehydration, compose le numero d’urgence” and then listed the number of the wine store. I found this amusing and took a picture, much to the amusement of the woman working in the shop. So, of course I went in and explained to her that I found the sign quite delightful (and effective). We then proceeded to have a conversation about French wine and alcohol in the small shop, and she asked me if I lived in France because my French was so good. This was an incredible moment of pride for me, and gave credit where credit is due–Coucou classes and French television. She responded that she learned English in the same way (the television part), and we briefly discussed some of our favorite shows. I didn’t buy anything in the shop, but I loved the exchange we shared and how similarly people learn new languages across the world (storytelling!!). I also left knowing who to call if I fell dehydrated, which was important…

Nice has a decidedly different feel than the other cities I visited. While a Mediterranean city like Marseille, it is very clear that Old Town Nice is heavily influenced by its proximity to Italy. This is evident both in architecture–as the narrow, brightly colored residences mix with the grand Belle Epoque buildings housing political or cultural organizations–and in the food. Niçoise cuisine, perhaps most known in the US for the Salade Niçoise, is heavily influenced by Italian and Mediterranean flavors and products. Seafood, anchovies, olives, chickpeas, and fresh vegetables are prominently featured in the diet here.

Not one to skip local specialties, I made my first goal of the day finding a more traditional Niçoise meal for lunch. I had done some research prior to getting to Nice (okay, on my train ride to Nice) and had restaurant recommendations from an LA friend who is from the city, and chose a restaurant based on what was closest to me when I decided I was hungry. That led me to Le Bar de Oiseaux, a delicious brasserie with an excellently priced dejuner menu (approximately 22 Euros). The delightfully charming restaurant was excellent (and happens to be Michelin suggested). My lunch consisted of a perfectly grilled and crispy calamari with tomatoes and arugula, bourride (a wonderfully light seafood stew with aioli), and a perfectly light panna cotta with passion fruit. This was all accompanied by fresh bread and a little cup of olives. Much like my first Michelin meal, this was exceptional and the service was fantastic. French restaurants can get a bad rap for service, but here, I felt welcomed and not rushed, which was exactly what I wanted to “vacation” part of my trip to feel like.

Bourride

November in Nice is definitely the off-season, and that was incredibly apparent my first night in the city. Many stores close early, and several restaurants or ice cream shops weren’t open at all. The streets were relatively empty, as were the bars on main streets. While this meant it wasn’t as lively as it could have been, it also meant that I really got to take in the city without fighting through crowds–which is something I absolutely hate. It also meant there was space for a television film crew to set up shop and film a scene in front of the prominently-located Nice opera house. As French television–particularly French detective procedurals–are a big reason I started re-learning French, I was so excited to see a film shoot in action. Yes, I live in Los Angeles and I have seen many, many film shoots on the street, but this was French film shoot! I wasn’t familiar with the show (which I thought was called Carpe Diem) but from the looks of it, I’d love it. And, fortunately for me, a delightful crêpe place was on the same street as the filming. And, seeing as I hadn’t had a crêpe yet while in France, I ordered “dinner”, a crêpe with chantilly cream, pistachio ice cream, and strawberries, and sat and watched a free show.

The next day, I took a train to the neighboring town of Antibes–another coastal city on the Côte d’Azur known for it’s impressive marina with even more impressive yachts. Like Nice, November is not a high season for Antibes, and I quite enjoyed having streets and shops to myself. Antibes was also heavily influenced by the artists who visited or lived there, and the artistic spirit lives in the city still. My morning wandering took me to an alcove of artisan shops where the artists were working on pieces alongside selling their works. Popping between ceramics, jewelers, painters, and glass blowers, it was so fun to see the artists creating in these spaces. I was completely enchanted by several artists, and ended up getting some prints for myself and got some holiday shopping done.

Antibes Artisans

As Antibes is known for its artist history, I had planned to go to the Picasso Museum that morning. What I did not expect was that Antibes was going to be my shopping day of my trip. I really hadn’t done any shopping this trip, so I decided to take advantage of the relatively empty shops and “Black Week” sales (so close…but so far). I spent the better part of that morning popping in and out of stores shouting their sales with bright red signs and outdoor stands of sweaters in every color you can think of.

After seeing these ubiquitous, v-necked sweaters for 2 weeks, I decided to try it on. What I didn’t realize is that these Italian-made sweaters, that were sold in almost every tourist boutique in Antibes and Nice, were “taille unique” or “one size”. When I learned this, I immediately was skeptical because the concept of one-size-fits-all clothing is a challenge unless you’re selling a poncho. I can sincerely say “one size” is generous. The sweaters did fit, but not in a way I felt comfortable wearing outside of the dressing room. Cool. This did not stop me from trying the other knits or slouchiness degrees in many other boutiques throughout the city. Nada. Feeling a little discouraged by my shopping expedition thus far, I ended up wandering into a small-business boutique that had a much more interesting, wider array of clothing–and sizes. There, I found a skirt, shirt, and jacket that were unique, fit me well, and made me feel beautiful. And–they were all made by small, French businesses with sustainable business practices. Much better than a mass-produced, cheap sweater any day.

The Sweater

Once I had my shopping success, I was less successful at finding something for lunch and a place to eat it. As Antibes is fairly touristy–even in off season– many of the open restaurants in the squares were over-priced and not highly rated on Google. Sigh. I ended up an okay sandwich and a delicious pistachio eclair that I tried to take down to the marina for a water-side lunch. The wind had another plan for my lunch, and my water-side picnic turned into a “wave at the water and turn around” as I ate my sandwich while walking back to the train.

Yacht time

I got back to Nice for a mid-afternoon siesta (literally my favorite activity) and woke up in time to catch the sunset over the water. I have seen some incredible sunsets in my life, but there’s something about the piercing blue water, melange of purple, orange, and pink of the sky, and hovering moon that made those sunsets in Nice beyond words.

Perfection

That night, I took my friend Rachel’s recommendation for dinner and headed to Chez Pippo for socca. Socca is a Niçoise specialty, which is basically a big pancake made of chickpeas. It is pretty much the only thing they make at Chez Pippo, along with some salads or soup appetizers. It was so clear that this was the place to go for socca because it was packed–and there was a 25 minute wait time for an order of the dish. The wait was worth it because it came out piping hot, the perfect mix of crunchy and soft. I could have easily eaten three plates and now desperately want to learn how to make it.

After dinner, I thought about going out for another drink, but the chilly, nighttime weather and my lack of sleep from the night before (one of my hostel-mates made some bold choices with a “visitor” that were very noticeable if you’re a light sleeper), I decided to head back to my hostel for an early night. Part of the other plan I had for my time in Nice was to take some time to work on my own writing (aside from this blog). I’m not going to spill the beans on what I’m writing yet, but I can honestly say, it’s one of the most fun times I’ve had writing in ages. Joining many remote workers on their laptops in my hostel provided the perfect setting to get some creative juices flowing–the free hot cocoa also helped.

I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to spend my last day in the Côte D’Azur. As Nice is in the center of many different cities, there were many options for day trips that I considered for that last day, including the hilltop city of Èze and the glitzy principality of Monaco. However, much like the museums, I found myself saying I “should” go. If I was in “trip” mode, I probably would have gone. But the minute I started hearing myself say “should”, I knew I wasn’t going to go. While I would love to go to both cities at some point, I knew that forcing it was going to ruin my experience that day–especially if I was just going to end up doing more wandering. If I have learned anything on this trip, it’s that I have a good understanding of myself. Trusting my gut instinct, whatever that may be, was going to be the right call for me.

Instead of going to one of the larger cities and doing more walking, I went to Villefranche-sur-Mer, a smaller resort town. Though most things were closed because of the off season, Villefrance-sur-Mer was perfect that day. As the name would suggest, the town is right on the water, and there is a row of restaurants right on the cove. It was an absolutely perfect day–the soft sun reflected on the sparkling, calm cove, and the surrounding hills provided protection from the wind. I chose a restaurant featuring a dejuner deal with moules-frites and wine (I ordered “Niçoise style” with olives and tomatoes–delicious) and was led to a table right by the water.

Villefranche-sur-Mer

My table was next to another woman who was dining by herself, and I was seated facing her. We enjoyed our mussels around the same time, taking moments to sip our wine, and bask in the perfect weather. We didn’t say a word to each other, but it was almost like we had lunch together. When she got up to leave, she nodded at me and said “bonne journée”. I will never know her name or her story, but I know that we shared an absolutely lovely lunch at that cove.

That afternoon, I went back to Nice and partook in another Nice specialty–ice cream. Again, being close to Italy, Nice has some darn good ice cream. I grabbed a cone with my traditional pistachio (the indisputable best ice cream flavor) and went rogue with a second scoop of biscotti and took my ice cream up to the castle tower to watch the sunset. While I was watching the sunset, cone in hand, I realized that it was Thanksgiving day. This was by far the least traditional Thanksgiving I had ever had. I was not indulging in stuffing and sweet potatoes, and I was far away from my friends and family, but sitting there watching the sunset, I felt unbelievably grateful for my experiences here and the support I have back home encouraging me to go explore (dear reader, that’s you! I’m grateful for you!).

Highs of Nice and Antibes: The absolutely magical sunsets in Nice.

Lows of Nice and Antibes: One-size-fits-all sweaters that don’t.

Biggest Surprises of Nice and Antibes: My lovely lunch in Villefranche-sur-Mer in an absolutely serene alcove.

The next day was my last day in France, and I was headed back to Marseille because I had a flight from there the following day. As with my first day in Marseille, my return welcome did not quite go as planned. I had two major things I wanted to do still in Marseille, both of which would have been perfect in the weather I had the week before.

Turns out, November in Marseille is windy. And not just light breeze windy. Very, very windy. Which, made going to see Marseille’s crown jewel–the hilltop Notre Dame de la Garde–a little bit of a challenge. Perched on top of a hill looking over the city, you can either take the bus or walk up to the church. I decided that I’d take the bus and walk down, and I am so glad I did. As the bus wound its way up the steep, steep hill, the wind got increasingly more intense. When we got up to the top, there were still a number of stairs to take to get to the church complex–and then I learned we couldn’t go in. Was I afraid that I was going to get blown off the hill or at least drop my phone? I was. Would it have been at least somewhat bearable if I brought a jacket? Yes. Would the whole thing have been infinitely better if I ate before I went and didn’t assume that there’d be food nearby? Also, yes. But, it was worth it for the incredible 360-views of the city.

Trying to survive the wind at the top of Marseille

Fortified with a jacket and a nutella crêpe, I hoped that visiting the corniches would be a little bit milder. Again, epic wind is not great for rocky coastlines and patio seating. After a 30 minute walk from the Vieux Port to Corniche Kennedy, I was freezing and getting wet as waves splashed hard against the rocks. I got to my desired stopping point and decided to forgo my plans of a glass of wine and watching the sunset over the water and called an Uber to take me back to the Vieux Port (waiting 15 minutes for the bus was not going to happen). 0 out of 2.

Corniche Kennedy

Not wanting to completely waste my last day, I walked a bit more around the old port before going to the Vertigo Bar and Restaurant next to my hostel for dinner–where I finally had a charcuterie and cheese plate, only 15 days into my time in France. Over my last French glasses of Red, I journaled about my experience, practiced my French, and danced to Cyndi Lauper along with the bartenders. This kind of encapsulated my whole experience in France–a bit of reflection, a lot of French, and unpredictable experiences that brought immense joy.

Before I left for Portugal, I was nervous about how these three weeks would go. I had great experiences solo traveling before, so I knew I could do it, but there’s always a bit of the unknown. This trip was exactly what I wanted it to be–everything I wanted to experience on this trip, I did. It wasn’t how I expected it to be, but that’s part of the fun of it. I am incredibly proud of how I committed to speaking French over the 2 weeks that I was in France. I didn’t always get things right, but I tried, and people were more than glad to help me (especially since they said my French was good in the first place!). I got a lot better at the language and am even more encouraged to continue now.

I got back to LA on Saturday and am very happy to be back. I came home with some major realizations, some new questions about what I want next, and immense gratitude for my life and the people in it. As much as I can see myself moving to France someday, getting back to LA confirmed to me that I’m not there yet, and I really do love my life here. Regardless, I know I’ll be back to France soon–and with even more French skills and perhaps a few more TV shows under my belt.

Looking back on the past three weeks, it’s hard to believe how much happened. I have learned so much about myself and traveling since I left Portugal. I’m incredibly grateful to have gotten to visit 2 amazing countries, meet incredible people, eat delicious food, laugh a lot, and grow a lot as a person. And that’s really the best I could ask for.

Some summaries by the numbers:

• 2 countries
• 5 Portuguese Cities and 8 French Cities
• 2 wine tours
• 3 different types of cod tried
• 7 markets visited
• 15,000 average steps taken per day
• 30+ average flights of stairs in Portugal
• 15 croissants (conservative estimate)
• 10 trains
• 4 busses
• 4 walking tours
• 4 dates in France
• 5 continents from which I met new friends
• 1 cast member of Candice Renoir met

Highs of the trip: The Douro Valley wine tour, Bordeaux, Sète, and unpredictable experiences meeting great people.

Lows of the trip: The ear infection. 0/10 would recommend.

Biggest surprises: Choosing to go to a Film Festival in less than 24 hours and booking a flight 4 hours in advance. And, how comfortable I was speaking French when I got going–and how good people thought it was.

Thanks for following along on the journey!

Marseille and Aix-En-Provence: Markets and Meetings

If there has been anything consistent about my trip, it’s the auspicious starts to each new city. There was the missed alarm in Porto, the 4 flights of stairs in Lisbon, the rain in Bordeaux, the walk from the train station in Sarlat, the lack of signage in Montpellier, the wrong date in Sète…you get the idea.

I think Marseille takes the cake. My first act in Marseille, after finding my hostel and a late lunch, was going to the urgent care. When I was in Sète, my left ear started to be clogged, and I thought it was just a normal respiratory reaction and it would go away on its own. It did not, and it turned into a full on ear infection with the worst ear pain I have ever had.

This is not the first time I’ve had to see a doctor while traveling in France. There was the famous 2011 case of either bed bugs or an allergic reaction to soap, and to this day, I don’t know what it was. But that time, I found a doctor during the week. This was late afternoon on a Saturday.

I walked into a pharmacy and asked where the nearest open doctor was, and he pointed me to the urgent care on the main shopping street in Marseille.

Even though I wasn’t in much of a watch and explore mood, it was fascinating to watch the crowds form as I passed. Marseille is both the busiest city and the most diverse city I have been in, and that was incredibly apparent as I made my way to the urgent care. People of all backgrounds—North African, Middle Eastern, Indian, French—mixed together at a fast pace, moving from store to store, getting on the tram, buying roasted chestnuts. The pace of Marseille was chaotic and rapid, a far cry from the other cities I had been to. In a lot of ways, Marseille reminds me of LA. Multi-cultural, fast-paced, gorgeous weather, a reputation of being a bit rough around the edges. As I made my way to the urgent care, this familiarity was very comforting (especially given my immense inner ear discomfort).

Here’s the part where I sing the praises of socialized healthcare. I got to the urgent care where several mothers with young children were waiting. I went to check in and gave a description of the symptoms, and I was told it would be a 30 minute wait and would cost 50€ since I didn’t have French health insurance. When it was my turn to go back, the doctor spent time diagnosing my symptoms, listening to me explain them (in French!), explaining her diagnosis (fun fact: you can get yeast infections (called mushrooms in France) in your ear from trapped water), and even trying to clear my ear out when I explained it felt blocked and I couldn’t hear out of it. I think she spent at least 15 minutes with me.

For comparison, I went to the urgent care on a Saturday in LA for a sprained ankle. I waited for 2 hours, having made an appointment in advance, and the doctor spent approximately 2 minutes with me and told me there wasn’t much he could do other than wrap my foot. With insurance, it cost more than 50€.

I am pleased to say that my ear feels much better now (though I wouldn’t have been opposed to an excuse for why I couldn’t get on a plane).

Upon returning to Vertigo Hostel to administer my ear drops, I realized a new roommate had joined my room and had set up a table for dinner in the corner. Katherine, a retired French professor, had come down from Paris for the weekend to escape the rain and see some shows. She was very, very chatty and so excited to tell me all about her voyage to Marseille and the shows she was seeing. It was a little hard to understand her with my stuffed ear, but we managed fairly well. I’m proud to say she was impressed with my French, even though not hearing myself made it even harder to speak. She also gave me a chocolate that she said had a little alcohol in it. It had a lot of alcohol in it.

It turns out that Katherine and I had the same evening plans. Knowing that my ear was going to prevent me from having a good time going out out, I decided I’d take advantage of a more low key activity and go see a play. Yes, having a stuffed up ear also doesn’t seem like it would be great for live theater—especially in a different language—but I was up for the challenge.

I left a bit before Katherine in search of a sandwich or something quick for dinner since I had a late lunch. It ended up as a Gary Walkabout (TM) only to find out La Criée Théâtre had a full and very lively restaurant when I got there. Cool. Alas, I didn’t have enough time to eat anything before the play started, but good to know for next time.

The play was an adaptation of an Aristophanes satire entitled “À la Paix!” but updated with Marseille references and made a wee bit more crass. Case in point, at the beginning, the play started with audience participation following one of the actors in a repeat after me game of charades that had the audience sound out “Merde!” by putting together four mimed syllables.

That “merde” was the first of many as act one continued in a dystopian version if Marseille where resources were slim and people were converting feces into energy using a machine. What followed was an irreverent look at humanity and why humans commit acts of violence and exploitation when we should be working together for peace. From what I could understand, complications due to the ear, not language barrier, amazingly, the play was very funny—if a bit blue at times. Even if I didn’t catch everything, I really enjoyed being in a French theatre and watching a piece because I know how important theatre is to the culture here. Talking to Katherine later, she thought the play was stupid and crass and didn’t understand parts of it. So maybe my lack of understanding had nothing to do with the ear or language…

The next morning, I left my hostel to go to try to find a flea market in a nearby neighborhood. While I didn’t find the flea market, I did pass Musée Cantini, a free art museum that had just opened for the day. I haven’t been to many museums this trip as I have preferred to spend my time wandering and taking in the atmosphere. With a free museum on my path, I had to stop. There’s something I love about small, empty museums. This gorgeous old building housed a handful of rooms showcasing paintings by artists who have spent time in the south of France, including Matisse, Picasso, Van Gogh, and countless others. I was the only one, aside from the docents, in most galleries, so I really got to take my time to admire the art. Having once had an anxiety attack in another, larger French art museum due to the crowds, this art experience was perfectly my speed.

When I left the museum, I continued on my path to find some amazing street art in a rather local neighborhood. Walking around in the morning—on a Sunday at that—there weren’t many people out, and those who were up and about were busy setting up their fruit stalls, cafés, and other shops. All around me, neighbors were greeting each other, sharing coffee and asking about their lives. Much like LA, Marseille has these very communal, cultural pockets that give the city so much depth and interest. I tried to look for somewhere to find breakfast, to no avail, but it was a delight just to wander and observe.

It actually was quite lucky that I didn’t end up getting breakfast in that neighborhood because my wandering took me back down to the old port. As soon as I got there, a small crowd had started to form under the central, mirrored awning. Then, a loud voice yelled out “un, deux, trois, quatre!”, prompting a band to start playing. As I approached, what appeared to be an small teenage marching band (minus the marching) was assembled and entertaining the crowd with their music. They were quite good. To add to the atmosphere, I looked to my right, and a lively market had sprung up where there definitely wasn’t one the night before.

I took it as a good sign that I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet as I wandered through the market tasting bites of cheese (still haven’t had enough cheese in France), pastries, jams, olives, and other delicacies. As Marseille is home to large North African and Ethiopian communities, I opted for an Ethiopian coffee and a a Lebanese wrap for my breakfast as I wandered back to the music. By that time, a large crowd had assembled, and the square came alive with people dancing and clapping along to “Let’s Get It Started” (on 2 and 4!). There was even someone with a large bubble wand entertaining the kids as they chased the large bubbles around the square. If there is one word I could use to explain the atmosphere that morning, it would be “joy”. And even with a stuffed ear, I was incredibly joyful.

The port also housed a Christmas market, though unlike other Christmas markets I have been to, this one only showcased Santons, or handmade nativity scene figurines of all types special to Provence. Not having a nativity scene of my own, I didn’t stop to purchase anything, but I did enjoy browsing the stalls to see the intricate work of the artisans. Each booth was unique, and the talent and care that went into each figure was so apparent.

Part of my reason for being at the port that morning was to join a free walking tour of Marseille. I hadn’t done any walking tours in other French cities, but Marseille felt so cumbersome that having a guide for the old city felt like a more manageable option. I met my guide, who happened to be an Argentinian expat who made Marseille his home for the last 12 years, and he took us around the old city focusing on the history of the architecture in the area.

He took us from Marseille’s founding by the Greeks in 600 BCE through Napoleon times in the old quarter. Marseille has always been a city of extremes—extreme poverty and extreme wealth—and that is evidenced by the history of the area. In fact, the downtown historically was one of the poorest parts of the city until various forces tried to change that.

One such force was the Nazis in WWII, who wanted to claim the downtown for their own and forced all of the poor out of their homes. Then, to make sure they never came back, they destroyed their homes and buildings, demolishing some 2,000 old buildings in old town Marseille. That number is staggering, and I’m not sure I could really comprehend the gravity of that as I walked through the rebuilt city. As I continued through, I thought of those who have lost homes or family in recent conflicts and said a brief prayer for peace as no one should ever experience that sort of unimaginable loss because of who they are. Putting the city tour in that context definitely put a somber tone on the rest of the walk.

As we continued through the oldest part of the city, Le Panier, our guide explained that that neighborhood used to be one of the most “dangerous” in Marseille. However, once the city won the EU City of Culture award for 2013, the money from the award was used to revolutionize and “clean up” the old town. Now, it is a “hip” neighborhood with many cafes, boutiques, and other cute attractions for the tourists who come to the Airbnbs in that area. Many of the old stores have been forced to close, and apartments have been replaced by short-term vacation rentals. As in Porto, tourism is a double-edged sword when it brings money to an area but also forces locals out of their homes and forces businesses to close. In the off-season, the area is near empty as many of the rentals go un-filled and stores shutter for the winter. I don’t know how exactly to reconcile my love or travel with the challenges of tourism, but for now I’m settling for supporting local businesses and staying in locally run establishments when I can.

A word about Marseille’s “danger”. Marseille is a huge, multi-cultural city that often ended up on “most-dangerous city” lists in Europe, at least pre-2013. However, much like Los Angeles, I believe Marseille gets a bad rap. Sure, there are parts of the city you don’t go to, and I wouldn’t walk around at night by myself (as I wouldn’t in LA), but the city also felt communal and welcoming. I have to wonder how much of its reputation is bias because it is not as pristine as other cities. Walking through Marseille during the day, I never felt unsafe or like I shouldn’t be there. In fact, I found it quite cool.

Our tour ended by MUCEM, a large museum built near the old port to celebrate the evolution of culture in the region. Part of the museum included an old fortress, which you could enter for free. Getting a bit hungry, I didn’t want to take the time to go through the whole museum, but strolling around the fortress was cool and provided great views of the old port.

Marseille is a city known for its seafood, particularly bouillabaisse. While I didn’t find bouillabaisse for lunch, I had a close second—moules frites (mussels with fries) in a cream sauce with a glass of white wine. In my mind, sitting on an old port with a steaming pot of mussels and a chilled glass of wine is the epitome of relaxation and vacation. Having fully shifted into vacation mode, I decided I’d take a few hours of downtime before heading out again that evening.

Having decided to give Bumble another try, I made dinner plans with a gent for that evening. Again, nothing better to do, and at worst it adds fodder to my ever-developing sitcom script. This dinner date was a far cry from my Bumble adventure in Montpellier in the best ways. To start, he made reservations at a restaurant by him. As it was Sunday, he wanted to make sure we had somewhere to go, and I wanted to see a new area of Marseille. The bistro was adorable, compact yet cozy. When I got there, he greeted me in the double kiss on the cheek fashion, and we sat down at our back corner table. Over a delicious glass of white wine and one of the best fish dishes I have ever had, with an incredible lemon risotto, conversation flowed all evening. As luck would have it, he is a middle school music teacher who loves opera and sings tenor (I won’t hold that against him). We discussed our love of music, the differences between teaching in France and in the US, and our favorite comedy series (he also loves the Good Place).

One of the things that struck me was how he found my living in LA to be a dream. A big American comedy fan, and a fan of Disney, he very much wants to visit LA for the experience. Guess it just goes to show, there’s always something alluring about experiencing something else—and it really did make me grateful for all I have in LA. We also discussed some of the heavier differences between our two countries, including guns, which led to me trying to explain the electoral college (in French!). As the nuance can be difficult for Americans in English, he decided he’d just look it up later.

At one point during dinner, he reached over and held my hand, which was very sweet. The night ended with him walking me to the tram station and politely kissing me. Later, I got a voice memo message of him singing and playing the piano. I guess you can say I’m a wee bit smitten. All along, I said I wanted to feel romantic on this trip, and this lovely evening felt just that. I have no idea if I’ll see him when I get back to Marseille, but even if I don’t, I can hold that lovely memory with me.

The next morning, I hopped on a train to AIX (okay, Aix-en-Provence, but I had to do it for the Miley reference). There, I had plans to meet my mom’s cousin Beth and her husband David who had recently retired to the city. I easily found them by Office of Tourism, and they showed me around one of the main streets, which had been taken over by Christmas decor, stalls, and rides for children. It was a bit funny to see all of the Christmas stuff with the vibrant orange leaves of the trees in the town square, but I suppose the same could be true for LA and palm trees.

We settled in for coffee at a very traditional, very tradition, brasserie on the big shopping street, and immediately started sharing stories. Like me, Beth and David love French culture and told me the way they ended up moving here and choosing Aix. We had so much in common from the get go: liberal politics, a strong interest in sociology, Candice Renoir… It was so easy to talk to them, and the time flew by. As we were sitting there, a friend of theirs came up behind Beth and kissed her on the cheek. We exchanged introductions (in French) as Beth explained who I was and how she met them (one of those funny, complete happenstance moments that form the best friendships). They ended up sitting at a table next to us, and we continued our conversation until we decided to explore a bit more of the old town.

Beth took me to see the old cathedral and town hall in Aix, and on the way there, we met another one of her friends. Aix is a city, but it’s really more like a big village. Being stopped by her friend as she was leaving the market, I felt like I was living in the opening song of Beauty and the Beast. But instead of the wanting “more than this Provençal life” and being annoyed by everyone knowing each other, I found it charming. Being expats, David and Beth had been able to build a community in their new home with people who they cared about and looked forward to spending the upcoming holidays with. As I consider whether I would like to move here someday, it was so lovely to see an example of a new chosen family being built.

Beth dropped me off in the center of the city, and we said “à la prochaine”, or “to the next time”. It’s so nice to know I have family in France if/when I decide to move…and who will help me with the paperwork.

As it was Monday, there was a lot closed in Aix as many shops take it as a day of their weekend. Despite that, I had a lovely time wandering around, exploring side streets, and visiting the bigger Christmas market and all its goodies. After a few hours of that, I made my way back to Marseille for a relatively quiet evening. I stumbled on a cool, trendy food hall for dinner that ended up. Wing the perfect spot to read a book before calling it a night.

I am now in Nice, but I’ll be going back to Marseille to round out my trip and head back home. To say I’m not ready is an understatement.

Highs of Marseille and Aix: My wonderful date and getting to connect with family.

Lows of Marseille and Aix: The ear infection. 0/10 recommend.

Biggest surprises of Marseille and Aix: A successful Bumble date and the low cost of urgent care.

Montpellier and Sète: A love letter

My experience in Montpellier started strangely from the moment I got there. Not bad. Just strange.

I got off the train, looked up the name of my hostel, which Google couldn’t find but thankfully I had the address. The good news is that it was literally down the block from the train station. The bad news…there was no sign outside and it was raining. After walking up and done the block several times, I realized I had passed the hostel, when I saw a bright light up sign with the name of the hostel inside.

hostel, which Google couldn’t find but thankfully I had the address. The good news is that it was literally down the block from the train station. The bad news…there was no sign outside and it was raining. After walking up and done the block several times, I realized I had passed the hostel, when I saw a bright light up sign with the name of the hostel inside.

Once I got in, I was immediately greeted by about 4 very professional staff all dressed in matching striped shirts, while others stopped setting up the lobby to take promotional pictures to offer me popcorn from the popcorn machine when I arrived. Turns out, the reason there was no signage is that the Elko hostel literally opened that day. I was being welcomed by the entire welcoming committee. This must be what celebrity feels like.

After I deposited my bags, I went to find dinner nearby. Montpellier is the 4th largest city in France (last I read), and has several universities. So, there’s a lot of cheap food around that caters to students. While trying to find dinner, I passed “Wok and Walk”, “Thai 2 Go”, and several MacDo’s (Macdonald’s). I chose Vietnamese place that was not a grab and go option, but rather a sit down and enjoy. And enjoy I did, as this was the best Vietnamese food I’ve had outside of Vietnam. Way to go, Montpellier.

Knowing I had to work later in the day, I wanted to make the most of my morning, so I got out pretty early and did my typical first day in a new city thing. I wandered around the main part of the city before settling into a café for “petit-dej”. I tried to go to two different markets and repeat my success from Bordeaux, but these were more shopping for food markets than sit and enjoy the food markets. But my cafe in the square was absolutely perfect, and I felt so at home as I joined the locals sipping their café (espresso) and enjoying a croissant.

It was fascinating to see the city waking up. I left my hostel around 8:30, and very few stores were open and restaurants were still setting out their chairs. After my croissant and cafe an hour an a half later, the city became alive with students going to class and people going to work. Okay, people sitting at a cafe for several hours before going to work. There’s nothing rushed about life here. People take their time. They know the people around them, and they enjoy the moments without rushing from place to place. Sitting in the cafe courtyard, sipping my coffee and reading my book, I felt perfectly at ease with my life in that moment.

Lovely Montpellier street

After breakfast, I continued my wandering around the city, taking myself across the big shopping street and up the big hill (relative…it’s not Portugal after all) to see the Arc de Triomphe. Okay…the Montpellier Arc de Triomphe, but it still looked cool. My goal for the morning was to go to the big gardens that were a part of the university—I’m a sucker for a botanical gardens—but I got there a little bit before they opened. Luckily, Montpellier is a city with a plethora of gardens, so I installed myself on a bench at the garden next door and continued to make a dent in my book. When the University gardens opened at 11:00, I meandered on over and strolled through the lovely foliage that occupied the space.

One thing I’ve learned on this trip is that things on maps often appear further spread out than they appear. Either that, or I have no sense of space or distance, which frankly, I already knew. Given that, I had planned on the gardens taking me an hour to stroll around, which would be perfect timing for then going back to the hostel, having lunch, and beginning my delayed workday. I made it around the gardens in approximately 10 minutes, which then gave me time to head back to the hostel by way of the cathedral and a few other shopping streets.

Jardin des Plantes

The reason I had chosen to stay in Montpellier was because I knew I had to work this week—in fact, that’s how I managed to swing coming to France in the first place. Working remotely definitely has it’s perks, and I’m very grateful for a boss who said “okay” to my crazy idea. The hostel I stayed at, the brand new, shiny hostel, was complete with co-working space, which was one of the reasons why I chose it. Outside of that however, being that Montpellier is a university city, I knew there would be libraries and cafes that I could find a nice spot to work should I want to.

It worked out well that the hostel had a co-working area with good WiFi because I ended up becoming a fixture there for the two days I worked while in Montpellier. And, with the very attentive waitstaff, it was like I had my own team making sure I always had coffee or a chocolate mousse prepared tableside when I needed it. And, I got to sample some of the new menu items, so that was pretty great as well.

When I finally finished work at 20 h (8PM, working some East Coast hours was part of the deal), I ventured out for a night on the town at a wine bar with someone I had just met…via Bumble. If you’ve talked to me at home, you know that I despise Bumble and Tinder. Or dating apps in general. I have never had a good date from a dating app. I have had “meh” dates or abhorrent dates, but nothing in between. Yet, what I found when I was in Ireland last year is that dating apps are some of the best ways to meet locals to show you around the city—without the whole Bumble and Tinder of it all.

What I learned that evening is that awkward or “meh” Bumble dates are just as likely to happen in a foreign country. I met Benoit at the central square in Montpellier and he took me to one of his favorite wine bars. Not a bad start, but things took their first weird turn when I mentioned I needed to eat (which I had said when we made plans), and he had already had dinner. I’m totally fine with eating alone. I’ve gotten used to it with this whole solo travel thing. Eating alone when you’re on a date is a different story. Benoit sat there as I had my delicious baguette with ratatouille. Even though it was clear that he felt it odd that I decided to eat, I wasn’t going to let his judgement stop me from feeding myself. He could manage with his wine. I had a delicious glass of a local red wine (Syrah’s are the primary varietal here), which perfectly paired with my meal.

The conversation itself was fine. We talked about travel, jobs, the weather—the normal small-talky stuff I hate when I’m on a date in English. It’s not better in French. And, it’s made more awkward when the 20-something’s at the bar recognize you are on a date—and you speak English as your primary language—and comment on how the date is going. Cooooool. When we had finished our glasses, we both awkwardly stared at the dregs at the bottom and came to the understanding the night was over. I paid for my portion of the bill and said “Au revoir”. I got back to my hostel a little bummed about the evening because I thought I might have enjoyed myself better if I went to a wine bar by myself. But…part of the reason I was staying in Montpellier was to have a “day-in-the-life” experience, and what is more local than a lackluster first date?

The next morning, I picked myself back up and wandered to a different part of the city, recommendations of my date from the night before. Hoping to grab a bite at the market, I set off there before I had breakfast. I got there as the market was setting up, and much like the other markets I found, it was more veggies, less pastries. Alas. It was cool to see a different part of Montpellier, however. This one was much more residential and had less of the old architecture of the high streets of the city center. It’s big, imposing buildings were much more modern, making it a fascinating juxtaposition to the older city center area. This is something I’ve found in most French cities as they expanded past the walled areas once they grew…and didn’t need the protection of fortresses. It’s kind of cool to have an old downtown area with cobblestone streets. I guess that’s what being an old country gets you…

Having struck out on breakfast, I wandered back to my cute square for “petit dej”. The day before, I ordered the “menu petit dej”, which included an orange juice, a boisson chaude (espresso for me), a croissant, and a tartine, aka a baguette with butter and jam. While I certainly am not one to skimp when it comes to carbs, I decided I’d just stick with the espresso and croissant for that day.

Following that, I made my way to the free art museum that was showcasing a photography exhibit of Antoni Campañà, an artist in the Spanish resistance who documented the Civil War, the Republican takeover, and then the rise of Franco. I have to admit, I don’t know a ton about Spanish history in that era, so I learned a ton through the descriptions and the photos. It’s really fascinating (and frightening) to see the parallels between that time and some of what is going on around the world today. What struck me, really, was the importance of artists and storytellers in trying times, and it made me incredibly grateful to both be an artist and admire so many people who are bravely telling their stories.

Antoni Campañà exhibit

After the museum, I had lunch at an outdoor café along a park (Montpellier has excellent parks) and enjoyed the “plat du jour”. That’s another thing I love about French restaurants. They almost all have a plat du jour for a good price, and if you want to make a full meal, you can get the “menu”, which often includes an appetizer (entrée in France), the main dish, and sometimes a dessert. These are really great deals if you’re hungry. Then, it was once again time for me to work, so I moseyed back to my hostel and cranked out some hours with the LexisNexis crew and had a quiet evening at the hostel because I knew I had an early morning the next day.

Montpellier was a really great place to base out of, especially since I had to do work. It’s a much more local city, so I didn’t feel like I was missing out on a ton of stuff by sitting inside doing work, and I felt like I was really living my day-to-day life as a member of the community. I definitely could see that it was a bit of a younger vibe, thanks to the presence of universities in the area, but there was also a vibrancy towards the city center that made it really fun. It also happens to be a central location for the France TV industry, and many shows are filmed in and around the area…

Which brings me to the real reason I spent a few days in Montpellier was because I wanted to go to the nearby city of Sète. Sète is a small, port city about 20 minutes west of Montpellier. Most people outside of France wouldn’t know much about Sète, but it was/is the filming location of Candice Renoir. While the show is not filming regularly anymore, I knew I wanted to go to Sète to experience it, and it also looked like the most beautiful little city. This was confirmed by several of my French friends back home who said Sète is great.

Originally, I was going to just do a day trip to Sète, but then I realized with work, that would make it harder to do everything I wanted to do. So I added a night. Then, I decided it would once again be hard to do everything I wanted to do with just one night, so I added a second. I am so glad I did.

The minute I stepped out of the train station and saw the canals of the city, I stared crying, I have spent so much time in a fictionalized version of this city this year, and to be there for real was a lot of emotions. And, the city was absolutely beautiful—exactly what I hoped.

What wasn’t what I hoped for was my hostel…Well, my Georges Hostel (named because Sète is the birthplace of singer Georges Brassens) was terrific—better than I hoped. What went wrong is that when I got there to check in, the lovely receptionist told me that I booked the hostel for the previous night…of course I did.

Thankfully, she was the nicest person ever and said since I got there “before checkout” that morning, she’d count that I was there, and she so graciously changed my reservation to the correct night and added Friday night as well. Once I got my room sorted out, Charlotte (my new friend in Sète) asked what brought me to Sète (Candice Renoir), and sh excitedly started talking to me about the show and how much she loves the actress. Same.

She then told me all of the things I needed to do and try in Sète, and I quickly had an itinerary that could take me several days, including some known filming locations of the series. Decision to add a second night was a good call.

Sète is part of a larger archipelago along the Étang de Thau (a string of lagoons along the Southern French coast), so the city is a series of “quais” connected by bridges. It’s a fishing and sailing city that is still active, so many of the bridges operate to let larger boats through on the main canal. Sète is sometimes referred to as the “Venice of Southern France’, and honestly, I liked it better.

Sète main canal

I set (no pun intended) about walking from one quai to another, passing a small “brocante” (flea market) and making my way around to what I thought as the main cemetery (a beautiful location looking over the water). Where I actually was walking was to a location calle the same thing but very much an abandoned building by a big bridge. Sète: 1, Melanie: 0. Not wanting to turn around and completely walk to the other side of the city, I decided to make the most of it as I realized I was near the façade of the building used for the commissariat where Candice works, and I was also close to the Theatre Molière, which featured prominently in several episodes. So, that morning became a Candice Renoir walking tour as I walked to those locations and also made my way to Pointe Courte, a small neighborhood on the tip of one of the quais which is an old fishing and artist enclave (also appearing in Candice Renoir). Both the theatre and Pointe Courte are known tourist spots, so it wasn’t odd that I was taking pictures and marveling at the surroundings. Perhaps the diners at the Brasserie Vauban and the people who work in the office that is not really the commissariat didn’t love it, but they can deal.

Pointe Courte

Seeing as I live in LA, I do find it kind of funny how excited I am by filming locations. I literally live among numerous filming spots, and am completely nonplussed in my everyday life. Maybe it is being in another country, or how much time I’ve spent with the show, that makes this different. Either way, I completely enjoyed my fangirl morning.

Upon finishing my self-guided Candice Renoir tour, I took the suggestion of Charlotte and walked through the shopping streets to the main market of Sète. Now this is a market. Sète is known for its seafood, particularly oysters, and there were several oyster bars within the market ready to put together a plate for you to enjoy with a baguette from the boulangerie and a glass of wine from the wine cave.

I settled in with a plate of oysters and a tielle, a sètoise specialty that is a seafood pie with a delicious sauce, and had one of the best meals I’ve had. Everything was so fresh! And it was cheap! I love French markets.

Sète oysters and tielle

After lunch, I returned to my hostel to begin my workday. As this was the only hostel in the city and also a prominent local cafe, I got to enjoy people watching and listening to conversations as I did my work, once again feeling very much a part of the fabric of the city that day. Adding to that feeling, I took a midday walk to the Haut-Quartier (literally high neighborhood, and it is built into a hill), and I spent some of it standing on some steps near a cool mural while catching up with my mother. Turns out, my resting spot was the entrance to the local college (middle school) and lycée (high school), so I was loitering with all of the other parents or au pairs waiting for their charges to emerge when the bell rang promptly at 17 h. Good thing no one seemed to question my presence, and I’m choosing to believe that that people thought I was an au pair instead of a parent of an adolescent child.

I snaked my way back down to my hostel by way of a small, pop-up art gallery in a chapel. This is apparently something very common in Sète as the city is a town of artists. I may or may not have been moved to tears by several pieces in the gallery.

That evening, I was told to go to a nearby wine bar for a lively atmosphere and a verre, particularly as it was the day of the “Beaujolais Nouveau”, a young wine that comes out in November that is fermented for just a few weeks before being released.

It’s often a day of celebration as the nouveau is intended for immediate drinking. It’s also the opportunity for wine producers outside of the Beaujolais region to produce “primeur” wine, or other young batches.

When I got to the bar, it was packed as people were clearly reveling in the celebratory atmosphere. I also wasn’t really sure they had food, so I decided to take a few steps more to a “tapas” restaurant just down the way. As I would later find out, Tempo (the restaurant) was more of a cocktail bar/tiny club than a restaurant, which was evidenced by the food being the least palatable I have had in France. 1 meal out of many ain’t bad. I did have to laugh as I sat at a table next to two Americans, and they were by far the most rude people I have met in France, breaking all sorts of stereotypes about the French (who have been nothing but warm and lovely).

I did end up going to the wine bar where the bartender both helped me order a wine and assisted me with my French when I got “I heard about that” wrong (what I said: “je l’ai entendu). In fairness to me, “j’en ai entendu de parler” is quite long, but she made me repeat it several times so she knew I had it. I will now never forget that phrase, and I have been using it every chance I get #frenchmaster.

I ordered a lovely “primeur” red, which was much lighter and a bit more pétillant (sparkling) than any other reds I’ve had. I settled into a table to do a bit of journaling and watch the merriment around me—crowds all singing “Imagine”, men accidentally breaking a glass and blaming each other jokingly, wine being spilled and shared—and I both enjoyed and felt a little bit of melancholy as I sat there as an observer. As someone who very much likes to be a part of things, it was odd to sit back, anonymously, and watch groups of people who knew each other celebrate. At one point in my life, this would have made me very self-conscious, but that night, I was more reflective and grateful to witness the atmosphere around.

The next morning, I went back to the corner bistro (literally called “Le Korner”) for my breakfast before walking out to the beach. The beach was about a 50 minute walk from my hostel, but it was a gorgeous day, and I desperately wanted the serenity of the water.

Early morning sun on my way to the beach

Since I arrived in Montpellier a few days earlier, I had spent a lot of time in my head trying to “figure out” my next move in life. It’s no secret that I’d like to someday move to France. I think a part of me has always wanted to live abroad as I’m absolutely enchanted by European culture, food, accents, and the pace of life. While I love LA, this desire has gotten stronger in the last year. I’m not sure if that’s because of the very non-LA weather we had this year (as I have said, LA hits different when it’s Seattle) or the increasingly vitriolic political climate in America, but something has gotten my proverbial weathervane twisting in a new direction, and like Mary Poppins, I can feel the winds changing.

At the same time, there is so much I adore about Los Angeles and am not ready to leave—my opportunities as a comedian, the ability to see incredibly performers readily, the proximity to Colorado and my family, and my incredible community in LA. As my therapist will tell you, my number one desire in life is to feel seen and recognized, so it’s a bit antithetical that I am constantly seeking ways to start over somewhere that I am anonymous. That said, coupled with recognition, my other main desire is freedom and adventure. I don’t like routines, I hate to be tied down, an I thrive on exploration.

Sometimes I worry that I’ll never be satisfied (you’re welcome that Hamilton is now stuck in your head). I can go round in circles trying to reconcile the two desires based on whichever is stronger at the moment, and I miss what I am doing in the present moment, though I have gotten better at grounding myself in my present when I notice a spiral start, especially when that spiral starts to get into stories of “I wish I was” or “I wish I had”. One thing I’ve learned with each new chapter is that I wouldn’t have gotten there if I hadn’t done the previous one (I am a writer, after all, I know this is how stories work). And, it does a disservice to my experiences, my loved ones, and myself to focus on regret.

Knowing that I needed to sort through the web of thoughts I had created, I took the opportunity during my walk to the beach to reflect—on my gratitude for the life I have and the people in it, on the different skills I have and what really makes me passionate, on my desire to run and to start again. It’s this last one that I spent the most time with on the walk. If I do move to France, I’m starting over. I don’t have a community here, I am learning the language, I don’t have a career, and everyone I love is a continent away. In a pessimistic mindset, I could consider that the stupidest thing I’ve ever wanted to do.

In a more positive frame of mind…it’s nothing I haven’t done before, as I moved to LA with no job and only knowing a few people and quickly built a beautiful life. I can do that again. Granted, I speak fluent English, so that makes things easier, but I am learning French and getting better by the day. Also to note, I would need to have the whole job thing figured out as a condition of the Visa, but I’m fairly confident I can make that work as well. As my wise friend Mary reminds me, focus on the “what”, let the universe take care of the “ how”. Of course, the main problem I have is knowing what I want…

The walk to the beach provided the perfect backdrop to reflect and sort through all of these things. As it was a workday, I didn’t pass too many people on the path to the beach. I stopped many times to just admire the clear blue water with the sun perfectly raining down on it, serene and calm. Standing at a lookout point (also feature in Candice Renoir), I felt my breath, closed my eyes, and my mind cleared. I have spent a lot more of this trip by myself than some previous solo travel experiences. A lot of that was by design as I wanted to capitalize on my self-growth journey of this year and get in touch with spending time with me, outside of the chaos of everyday life or as a necessity when I was tired or sick. This walk exemplified everything I had hoped to find by traveling by myself. It was peaceful. On that walk, everything going on in the world went away, my mind cleared, and I was fully present. There, in that moment. I didn’t need to know the answer right now—I just had to exist.

one of the beaches near Sète

On my way back from the beach, I walked up to the big cemetery, the right one this time, and enjoyed another moment of pure serenity. It’s a little odd that I find such solace in cemeteries—Catholic ones, at that. the Sète cemetery is parched on the hill and has a stunning view over thee water. The terraced tombs create a magnificent picture, especially with the sparkling Étang behind them. I slowly walked through the cemetery, taking the opportunity to feel every step. At one point, I sat at a bench to journal, and I just started crying. Not a bad cry, but rather it was a release of all the emotions that had been building up on this journey—all the emotions of this year I suppose. Sitting in a spot that featured prominently in the series finale of Candice Renoir, I realized how far I have come—not because of the show and the character, but I had made it happen for me.

Sète cemetery

Before returning to the hostel for work, I once again stopped by the market. Realizing I have not nearly had enough cheese during my time in France, I decided to make myself a little picnic of the creamiest brie I have ever had, a petite baguette, a teille, and some olives. I took it back to my hostel for a working lunch—picking up a hazelnut tarte on my way—and it is officially the best lunch I have ever had while working.

That evening, my hostel was hosting a jazz concert “de New Orleans”. I arrived a little late to the lobby because I was finishing up my Friday necessities, and when I got there, the lobby was already swinging. The bar was alive with the bartenders pouring wine, beer, and other cocktails. People—both locals and hostel residents, young and old, were bopping along to the excellent trio. I very rarely think a soprano sax is excellent, but this was truly a treat. Sète is not very big, and it’s very clear that people in the city know each other as friends were greeting each other with the traditional French cheek kiss and getting up and dancing with each other. In fact, there was one woman who invited every young man to be her dance partner. Live your life, madame.

Initially, I stood on the sidelines watching everything happen around me, I had already been politely tapped to stand out of the way when I was waiting for my glass of wine. Pretty soon, I found myself in the mix of everyone, letting my inhibitions go as I danced along with the locals. After working up a bit of an appetite, I had a “planche” (appetizer board) of hummus and crudité that I enjoyed while standing awkwardly at the very crowded bar. There, I began talking to Jérémy, a man from a small village in the French Alps who had come to Sète to embark on a sailing voyage the next day. We shared our travel dreams (I also want to sail) and weather preferences (I hate the snow, he loves it) all while enjoying the music and until the trio called it quits.

Hostel jazz

Once the concert was over, I joined a small group from my hostel standing outside enjoying their beverages. One of the men I had talked to earlier in the evening, as each time he went to “cheers” me, either my glass was empty or his was. Dommage. After standing on the sidewalk and talking for ages (including some conversations with some rather tipsy locals passing by, one of which responded ‘Oh! Alligators,” when I said I lived in Los Angeles. When I corrected him, he replied “Oh! Casinos!” I decided that was close enough), the five of us decided to go find a local bar to hang out at.

We walked by the first bar, which I thought was hopping, but the French folks with me didn’t like the vibe. They wanted to find a club, but it was fairly early to find a club still (only 11 PM). So, we wandered along the quais where most things were decidedly closed (it is off season, after all) until Kevin stopped a local and asked him for his suggestion. That led us on another walk about, on the other side of the canal, and up a side street when we heard music. There, we saw a crowd assembled outside—a crowd of the coolest looking people I have seen, all with their beanies, big coats and scarves, and that’s where Kevin and Johann decided to stop. Loïc, Miryam, and I were just kind of along for the ride at that point.

Apparently, my French friends and I had a different definition of the word “club” because where we ended up was a small warehouse, artist loft looking space with three giant vats of wine, a makeshift DJ, and an open kitchen area where dishes and empty glasses were piled up. In the middle of the open space, two women were dancing, not necessarily to the beat of the music, but they were feeling themselves, and I found this freedom inspiring. This was exactly the hipster type of thing I’d expect of French artists, and I was all for it. Like the bar the night before, they were celebrating the first batch of wines for the season. These wines were all fairly sweet and light, so not my preferred palate, but definitely better than wine I’ve had produced in seemingly similar conditions in college.

Our first “club”

Hanging back at first, I followed my French friends as they started conversations with the locals and brought me into the conversation as their American friend who spoke French. Soon, I was talking to a playwright about his latest creation, a set designer (again, no pun intended) who worked at theaters around town, people who worked in the TV industry and other artists who lived in the city. It became very clear that they all knew each other, and it was so lovely how they quickly welcomed me into their fold.

I got to talking to one woman, Élodie, who worked for France TV and who very bluntly asked why I was there. Not in a rude way, but rather out of curiosity because Sète doesn’t get too many American tourists. I explained to her that I was watching a lot of French TV (which is when I learned she worked in the industry) and told her that my favorite show was Candice Renoir. At that, she got so excited because—while she doesn’t work on Candice—one of her best friends plays one of the lieutenants in the later seasons. In fact, she had just been at her house the week before and was upset to tell me that she was not in town that day.

She invited me to join her and her friends (literally everyone at the first location) as they went to see a friend who was dj-ing at another club. A club that turns out was where I had dinner the night before. Ah, that explains the food. The inside of the club was very tiny, but the dance floor spilled onto the street as pale were standing outside with their cocktails, smoking a cigarette, and jamming. Élodie introduced me to a few other people (who were equally perplexed but delighted by my presence in Sète), and we spent the next several hours dancing, talking in English and French (as all of us wanted to practice the other respective language) .

I ended the night with several new Instagram friends and a place to stay next time I’m in Sète. Having started the day feeling the weight of my anonymity traveling in a new country, that night assuaged all my fears about what would happen if I decide to move. I know one of my strengths is meeting people—even in a different country in a different language—and that wouldn’t change if I decided to make a leap—even if that isn’t for a few years still.

When I got back to the hostel at 1:30 that morning, I finally booked my train to Marseille for the next day (okay, fine…later that day). I had tried to book it several times before, but each time I went to hit purchase, I started crying. After a truly magical evening, I felt complete with my journey in Sète and ready for the next leg of my trip.

Sète was really everything I hoped it would be. Charming, warm, delicious, artistic. Though I had experienced a factionalized version for months, the real thing surpassed my expectations. Sète, je t’aime.

Highs of Montpelier and Sète: Taking my Candice Renoir tour, my incredibly nice hostel friend who did me a real solid with my booking error, the incredible Sète market, my walk to the beach, and the time for reflection.

Lows of Montpelier and Sète: A lackluster Bumble date and disappointing food for one meal.

Biggest surprises of Montpelier and Sète: What constitutes as a night club in a small port city in France.

Bordeaux, c’est ça

Bonjour! (or, Bonsoir! in fact because it is indeed “soir” as I am writing this).

When we last left off, I had acted on a whim and bought a ticket 4 hours before the flight from Portugal to France. Since then, I have been in 3 cities in France, eaten many, many chocalatines (pain au chocolates for everywhere other than Bordeaux), and met an actor from one of my favorite TV shows. To say this was a success is an understatement.

This is also one of the most spontaneous things I’ve ever done. When I was planning this trip, I agonized back and forth between planning exactly where I wanted to be or going off of #vibes. Much to the amazement of many of my friends who consider me a Planner, #vibes mostly won out. It’s funny to think about how I had booked a different flight and decided just to skip it and change my plans–Melanie from a few years ago would never have done such a thing, feeling like she had to uphold something that was set, even if it no longer served her. #MainCharacterEnergy Melanie said, “The hell with plans. I’m doing what I want.”

As I mentioned in my last post, I was casually scrolling Instagram, as one does, and I saw that an actor from Candice Renoir was showing his film in a film festival near Bordeaux. Being a #fan, I follow most of the actors from the show, and knew that many of them had cameos in it…and as a film festival seems like a very French thing to go do, I decided I couldn’t miss it–it’s not every day that I’m in France after all.

I landed in rainy Bordeaux on Thursday night and made my way to the hostel that I had just booked a few hours earlier. One of the reasons I liked to have my plans all set in the past is I wanted to know where I was sleeping and how I was getting there. As this experience proved to me, you can often find somewhere to sleep with very, very little notice.

Central Hostel in Bordeaux was right in the center of the city. In fact, my Uber couldn’t get there because it was surrounded by pedestrian only streets. When I got to the hostel, there was a lively vibe in the lobby because it turns out happy hour lasts all night. I dropped my bags off in my room and decided to join the fun. Or at least be surrounded by the ambiance as I wrote in my journal with a glass of red wine (I was in Bordeaux, after all) at hand.

I had been sitting there for no longer than 5 minutes when a man named Antoine came up to me and started asking me questions in very slurred English. I should note, this was not because he didn’t speak English. This was because he was celebrating his last day of work at the hostel and therefore had been imbibing with his friends all evening. Now I understood the atmosphere.

Soon, other members of his entourage came up to talk to me, some in French and some in English, and I was ingratiated into a crew celebrating. It was very clear, however, that they were on a different level than I was going to be, so I began talking to another couple of folks, Constance and Tom, who were as excited to practice their English as I was to practice my French. In a conversation that lasted a few hours, we discussed entertainment, travel, learning a new language, American politics (woof), and Madonna while they spoke in English and I responded in French. They gave me pointers on my French, and I returned the favor for their English. I was really nervous this first night in France as I desperately wanted people to speak to me in French, yet my nerves made it hard for me to form sentences. As soon as I got to talking to Constance and Tom, those nerves went away, and I realized that they felt the same way I did. It was truly the best way to start my France vacation.

The next morning, I started by doing another very Bordeaux activity…eating. Bordeaux, like most French cities, has several markets with fresh vegetable, fruit, meat, fish, dairy, etc. food stalls. I remembered from Anna and my trip to Avignon 12 (!!) years ago that the market was one of the best places to buy food, so I promptly went to the Marché des Capucins for breakfast that morning. I sat at the counter of one of the brasseries and ordered the “formule petit dejuner”, a chocolatine, a boisson chaude (espresso for me), and a freshly pressed orange juice. Sitting there doing my crossword, along with the other people reading the paper or doing their crosswords, I felt very French. Nailing it day one.

After breakfast, I fell in love. I have been joking for a few weeks that my goal for this trip was to fall madly in love, and I did that my very first morning. Not with a suitor, but with the city. The soft sun perfectly hit the limestone buildings in the most romantic way, and I felt like I was walking through a fairytale. Without really a plan, I meandered my way through the city, taking narrow side streets, passing palaces, and walking along the river. I didn’t even care that there was a chill from the breeze. With my tan trench coat and purple beret, I fit right in.

On the idea of falling in love, my therapist asked me what I meant by that before I left. I told her I wanted romance…but that didn’t necessarily mean romance romance. I wanted to feel romantic. So, for lunch, I did one of the most romantic things I’ve ever done, and I took myself to Le Pavilion des Boulevards a Michelin star restaurant for their 4 course lunch menu. Michelin star restaurants and tasting menus are a far cry more affordable in France than they are in the United States, so it really seemed like a crime not to go.

When I say this experience was life-changing. I’m not joking. This was by far one of the best meals I’ve ever had in my life, and they could not have been lovelier. When I got there, they promptly took my coat and escorted me to my table — pre-set for 1. That little detail was so nice. Sometimes, dining alone can feel so lonely–especially at a nice restaurant. The fact that the default wasn’t a couple made me feel seen and set the tone for a really lovely experience.

Things only went up from there. Starting with bread service, followed by a chestnut cream with chopped mushrooms and a quail egg; cod with sesame foam, pureed artichoke, coffee gelee, and melt-in-your-mouth seaweed shortbread (go with me on this one); duck with a red-wine reduction with parmesan polenta and glazed turnips; finished off with a “floating island” with sauteed pear and a creme anglaise. This was capped off by a coffee and “mignonettes”, or little desserts, which were the perfect way to end the meal.

It was all to die for. I brought a book with me to occupy myself as I sat, but I didn’t need it. The flavors and experience were captivating enough. When I left the restaurant, I did a little dance, I was so happy. Treating myself to that type of meal is something I rarely do, and the whole experience felt romantic. I capped it off by wandering back to my hostel through the absolutely lovely gardens (just beating the incoming rain) before catching my train to Sarlat-la-Caneda. Not a bad first day in Bordeaux.

The train to Sarlat was much easier to figure out than the trains in Portugal–no hidden assigned seats–and it was a fairly uneventful ride. Things got fun when I got to Sarlat. Sarlat is a remote, old medieval town (that I actually knew about because it was one of the featured towns in another French mystery show I like). But, that means it’s not very populous….which means when you’re there the weekend of a major film festival, there are no Ubers.

So, I began a trek in the dark from the train station to my AirBnB 20 minutes away. When I booked my lodging, the location seemed to be in the center of town. It was not. After 10 minutes of walking to the center of town, then realizing that I’d have to go up a hill (with my suitcase) for 10 more minutes to find my original lodging, I said “Nope”, and I decided my safety and comfort was more important (not that I ever felt unsafe, but…). I walked into the first hotel I saw on the main street and asked if they had a room open. They did. They couldn’t have been more helpful, and even thought I had to bring my suitcase up 2 spiral staircases (my personal nightmare conquered), I think this was where I was supposed to stay all along. The name of the hotel? Hotel Renoir. (If you’re playing along at home…you know why this matters).

I dropped my suitcase off and then went to dinner at the one restaurant, appropriately named L’Endoit (the place) that was still open, around the corner from the movie theater. I had a delicious burger and fries (and a salad! huzzah!) before heading over to the theater. I’m not sure how I was hungry after my lunch, but I think the suitcase walk had something to do with it.

Even though I live in LA, I’ve yet to go to a real film festival (thanks, COVID). The theater was abuzz with excited movie goers, mostly teenagers interested in film, and we filed into 4 theaters showing the Comme Un Prince (apparently, it was one of the special features of the festival). I got lucky and got a place in theater 1, where the cast and crew of the movie were going to be.

As I knew that some of the Candice Renoir cast had cameos in the film, I wasn’t sure who would show up, and snagging a seat in front of the “reserved” row felt like a good choice. The movie started promptly at 22:00, and it was truly excellent. When it started without subtitles (not even in French), I was worried that I wouldn’t understand it, but I’d say I understood about 85% of it perfectly. I can tell you exactly what happened, maybe I just missed a word here or there. For my first outing without any subtitles, I was pretty pleased! The movie was the perfect blend of romantic comedy and sports movie that gave it depth and interest. And, it was filmed at a beautiful French palace and incorporated a good bit of history. Can’t complain about that.

I had seen a lot about the movie on Instagram as Ali Mahyar (the director) had been sharing about it, as had the other cast members of Candice Renoir, singing his praises. While none of the rest of the cast was there (did I practice what I would have said to Cecile Bois? maybe), I did get to talk to Ali. I tried speaking in French, but my nerves and excitement got the better of me, and I bumbled through my French (in fairness to me, I would have bumbled through English in this situation too). He couldn’t have been nicer as I told him I was a fan of Candice Renoir, and he made sure I liked (and understood) the movie. I assured him I did.

Sarlat, in addition to having a film festival, is known for its expansive Saturday market. I asked the concierge at my hotel how to get to the market, and I really didn’t need to. It takes over the entire town. From clothing stalls to soaps to fruits to cheese, everything is represented. I enjoyed wandering the medieval streets, passing the booths and sampling things as I went. All of the vendors were so nice, and I had some lovely conversations explaining to them that I was visiting from California.

One of the coolest things about the market, in addition to the backdrop of medieval castles and churches, was that everyone seemed to know each other. I know that’s not atypical for a small town, but the way everyone in town poured out for the Saturday market to do their shopping felt really special.

While I didn’t accomplish my goal of having breakfast from the market (unless you count an olive and shot of the regional specialty hazelnut liquor breakfast), I could have had a meal of just the sights and smells of the market. I did stop at a patisserie for a tarte aux pomme and an espresso before making the trek back to my train to return to Bordeaux.

It had been a lovely day in Sarlat, and I was unfortunately greeted with wind and rain back in Bordeaux. For my return to the city, I had booked a hostel in a different area–the old warehouse/ industrial port district turned hip-bar and artsy area. Like most cities that had an old warehouse district. My hostel, the very cool Whoo!, was perfectly situated next to a public garage where people could bring their cars and work on them (while blasting music and drinking wine) and down the street from a fancy food hall called the Halles de Bacalan. As the weather was crap, I didn’t want to venture too far, so I decided that seemed to be a good place to go for dinner. Apparently I wasn’t alone as it was PACKED. The hall had all sorts of food: tapas, “deli” food, sushi, meat, Portuguese, Italian, and quite a few wine bars.

I did the typical thing anyone in my family does when they are confronted with too many choices and it’s about half an hour after they should have eaten. I did a Gary Walk-About (TM). I wandered around the stalls several times before deciding on what to eat. Realizing that I was hungrier than I thought I was (as evidenced by the sudden nerves and “what the hell am I doing here by myself” feeling I had while I tried to find a seat), I decided on a big bowl of pasta that perfectly went with the wine I got. I finally found a place in the middle of two groups of friends both saving seats for other people, but I managed to ask (in French!) if I could sit there and it wasn’t too scary. After quickly eating my dinner, I decided to call it an early night on account of the weather and early morning I had planned the next day.

I had two activities booked before I left: one was my Douro Valley wine tour, and the other was my wine tour in St. Emillion, one of the famous areas in the already famous Bordeaux wine region. Bordeaux is divided into several different appellations, which is the geo-political boundary of a wine region. It turns out, wine making is very political and regimented in France, and in order to be labeled a St. Émilion wine, let alone a St. Émilion Grand Cru or Grand Cru Classé, you need to meet a certain set of requirements. This includes everything from the types of grapes used to the soil to the consistency of the quality year after year.

There are over 350 AOCs (not that kind) in France, and each have different rules about the wine they can produce. St. Émilion, being the right climate for Merlot and Cabernet Franc, is known for its red blends of mainly those two varietals. There are some with Malbec grapes (which everyone stressed were French and not Argentinian), but you’re unlikely to find many white varieties out of the area. And if you do, they are certainly NOT Chardonnay.

We started our day with a drive out to St. Émilion, stopping at the church terrasse to see over the medieval city and learn about its history, particularly why the region became such a wine hotspot. We also got to stop at the bakery that is known to have first perfected the plain macaron cookie recipe. It was started by nuns, and it has only ever been woman-owned. When you buy/inherit the shop, you also buy the recipe. It must be a pretty penny because that was a darn good cookie.

When it reached an appropriate time for wine, we made our way to Ambe Tour Pourret, a rather large, but rather new estate in which the matriarch of the family calls all the shots (a theme for this region). We tried 4 different wines there, all some sorts of Merlot blends, and I have to say Sideways was wrong. There are some very, very good Merlots out there. We also had a nice picnic lunch (indoors), and I finally had my first French cheese of the trip. My cheese count has been lacking so far, and I vow to fix that.

After that, we went to another estate where we learned about their wine making process and then went to their wine shop where we sampled not just their wine, but 3 other wines as well. I think we were only supposed to have 2 tastings, so 3 were a complete bonus!

Our final stop was a small family producer out in the countryside of St. Émilion. My tour compatriots were almost all Americans (except for one brave Australian woman who put up with us), and the men on the tour won our host over by playing the American Football game that was happening in Europe at the moment. That won us an extra tasting of a very, very fancy wine. I sont often think fancy wines taste better, but this one did. Or it was just the last wine I tasted that day, and even Maneschewitz would have tasted good.

When we got back, I quickly fell into bed for a nap before meeting Aminata, one of the women i met in Porto, for dinner. Having just moved to Bordeaux, Aminata didn’t know many places either, so we explored together. We found a lovely little brasserie with a courtyard, and we both ordered their special “croque”, a sandwich with sliced roasted potatoes on top (don’t knock it till you try it). Aminata was incredibly patient with me as we spoke only in French, and she helped me a ton. I am so proud of myself because I could sustain a conversation that went beyond small talk and actually converse for a few hours at a level in which I got to know a new friend all in French. We talked about travel, tv shows (she found it very funny that I knew French TV), and so many other things. Since I’ve left Bordeaux, we’ve texted a bit, and I definitely feel like I’ve made a new friend.

My last morning in Bordeaux, I grabbed a quick breakfast, including the city’s famous Cathedral, and wandered around a bit of the city I hadn’t seen yet. It was wonderfully dry, so I took my time hopping in and out of stores and meandering through the side streets before I had to catch my train to Montpellier.

I was truly sad to leave Bordeaux as I completely fell in love with it. Good news, there is affordable real estate if I decide to totally “Under The Tuscan Sun” this trip. I guess we’ll have to see!

Highs of Bordeaux and Sarlat: Everything? The food, the wine, the people, the buildings. Meeting new friends and managing to speak wholly in French. Oh, and seeing a movie directed by an actor in one of my favorite TV shows and meeting him.

Lows of Bordeaux: My crisis of confidence after returning from Sarlat.

Biggest surprises: the affordability of real estate. That and I can hold conversations in French!

* this title came from a very famous song entitled “Bordeaux”, sung by the French singer, Serge Lama

Coimbra, Lisbon, Sintra: Street Art, Songs, Stairs, and Surprises!

Monday night, I got into Coimbra from Porto, and found myself at a small train station under a bridge.

As someone who resides in Los Angeles, under a bridge at night was not where I wanted to be. But, Portugal is incredibly safe so I felt perfectly at ease standing with the students commuting back to campus waiting for my Uber. I was a little nervous about finding my driver, but I easily found him. Communicating with as a different story.

As he spoke Portuguese and Spanish, and I speak English and French, we communicated through a series of solo word exchanges, gestures, and songs on YouTube (him). He wanted to communicate with me so much, and I tried my best to communicate back. It wasn’t easy, but we finally got to Portugal Bonita, and we could both agree on that.

Coimbra is a city based around the medieval university, which as many things built in medieval times, is built on a hill to make it more challenging for potential foes to come in. Unfortunately, it was also challenging for me as my hostel was next to the old cathedral on top of said hill. While I had my nice Uber driver drive me up, anything I wanted to do in the city means traversing back down the steep hill.

Which, I did promptly upon arriving because I had booked myself a table to see a Fado show in Coimbra. Fado is the traditional music of Portugal, and while it started in Lisbon, Coimbra has its own version, associated with the university. Because of this, Coimbra Fado is traditionally sung by men (as men were traditionally the only people who could go to the university). The concert I went to was held in a little chapel turned restaurant and concert venue. I was surprised at how small the venue was as it only had about 6 tables set up. For dinner, they served traditional Portuguese fare. I had a vegetable (mostly potato) soup and fried cod fritters that were quite good, even if it was all salty and a bit heavy.

As a singer, I always try to search out traditional music anywhere I go. I have yet to be disappointed by stumbling into an authentic performance. This was no exception as the two guitarists and one singer were truly fantastic. Fado is known for its melancholy quality, and the singer explained to us the meaning of each song before he sang them. Regardless of the storyline of the Fado, the songs are full of pride and often become sort of anthems for the city. As the distinct Fado was one of the main reasons I stopped in Coimbra, I’m so glad that this was as good as it was.

The next morning, after sleeping like a log thanks to my assent up to the hostel the night before), I walked down the hill to the main square to join a free walking tour I had booked. There, I was joined by a woman the Netherlands and one from New Zealand as we met our guide Mario. The cool thing about Mario was that he studied art and architecture, so this tour was really focused on the buildings of Coimbra and how they have changed over the years.

Starting at the bottom of the hill and working our way up (again), we passed by the old market square with a church, an old Romanesque church (that was sawed in half wedding cake style to make way for a new shopping street), and another large church that houses the resting places of the first two kings of Portugal before we made it to the old cathedral. We couldn’t really go in the cathedral, but we stopped to learn a bit about the role the Catholic Church played in Portugal (spoiler alert: it was a lot).

On our way up to the top, we crossed paths with many students wearing suits, ties, and black robes going to and from classes. If this sounds like the wardrobe of certain wizards who attend a wizarding school outside of London, you’d be right. In fact, the author of said series was inspired by the students walking around in these robes and chose to make them the wardrobe of the Hogwarts students.

Mario explained that these robes aren’t mandatory anymore, and students have to go through a sort of ritual to wear them. The way he described it, it sounds like a kind of fraternity or sorority initiation process, and he said a lot of people start it and decide not to finish the process due to some tasks that are a bit like hazing. As in the US, there has been a major crackdown on types of activities older students can mandate, and it was interesting to learn that these sorts of activities happen at colleges across the world.

In addition to being known for Fado, Coimbra is also known for its poetry, which goes along with its intellectual atmosphere. In fact, Coimbra housed the only Portuguese speaking university until 1870, and the city is still very much centered around the school as the population greatly increases when school is in session.

We finally made it to the university at the very top of the hill. Before it was a university, it was a palace, which explains its strategic placement on top of the hill. Not to waste the space, many rooms were simply converted to meet similar requirements of the new university: the king’s quarters became the deans offices, the throne room became the ceremony room, the chapel became the…chapel. As he went to the university, Mario told us a lot of stories surrounding the university—like the university bell clapper was once stolen and because it was written in the bylaws that THAT bell was the only one that could start and end classes, they didn’t have classes for 2 months. I didn’t realize skipping class could be that much of an ordeal…

My favorite part of our Coimbra tour was through the botanical gardens. The gardens are still used by the university for research, and they also have concerts sometimes. The gardens were so lush and verdant and it made a very relaxing way to end our tour.

Leaving our tour, I climbed up the hill (once more with feeling), stopping at a lovely, small Portuguese restaurant for lunch. Desperate for a vegetable, I ordered the house specialty: Portobello mushrooms stuffed with codfish and cheese. It was still a heavy meal, but it was one of my favorite meals I had in Portugal—and I finally had a veggie.

Following lunch, I made my way to the train to head back to Lisbon. Since I left Lisbon pretty immediately when I got there, I was really excited to return to the city since I had heard so many o credible things about it.

My hostel could not have been more perfectly situated in the center of the main shopping district, and I didn’t have to climb up a big hill to get there. Unfortunately, I did have to climb up 4 flights of stairs to get to my room, but I had been training all week for this. That evening, I went to the hostel Sangria Hour where I met Sam and Petra from California and Oregon, respectively, and Mareike from Berlin, and the four of us set out to find dinner at a local place Mareike had recommended to her by a tour guide.

We quite honestly never would have found it without the guide’s instructions because it was up a big hill, down some stairs, and around an alley, but the place was hopping! Mareike, Petra, and I split a cod dish, a shrimp dish (both of which were variations on the same dish with different protein), mussels, and sautéed vegetables that were cooked within an inch of their lives. Soggy vegetables aside, the food was fantastic and I may learn to like cod after all.

The restaurant was so lively that it made it a little difficult to hold a conversation sometimes, but Petra, Mareike, and I had a lovely time discussing television, sustainably, and travel routes. Sam, a recent college grad, spent the dinner searching for happy hour places nearby. I had to laugh a little at this because I have been told by many people that happy hours in European cities often exist to lure in American tourists with weaker drinks. And…that’s exactly what happened later that evening.

Despite the weak drink and empty bar, I had a nice time talking with my fellow travelers and watching a couple of them really lay it on thick to flirt with our waiter (who had said happy hour was a deal just for us. #eyeroll.

Not feeling like getting another weak, sweet drink, Mareike and I headed back to the hostel and went to bed—or attempted to if we could block out the sounds of locals at an adjacent bar chanting and cheering till 3 AM.

The next morning came a little too quickly thanks to my short night of sleep due to the party. As I had done in every city too this point, I decided to start my day in Lisbon with a free walking tour. All of the tours I had done were great, but this one truly might have been my favorite—and I ended up on it truly by chance because I couldn’t find the person I was supposed to from my hostel.

Things worked out though because João was an excellent guide—and singer! A musician himself, much of the tour was dedicated to Fado in Lisbon as he pointed out street art dedicated to various performers and even demonstrated some of their songs. Unlike Coimbra, Lisbon Fado was the music of the working class and was mainly performed by women (and still is). It retains the melancholy feeling that João explained is really a facet of Portuguese life.

AsI had become accustomed to with all of the Portuguese tours at this point, much of our tour was spent walking up a big hill. This one, however, was the home of a pastelia that João said was his favorite pastel de nata in the city. I do agree and think it was my favorite one I had in the country. Across from the pastry shop was an incredible viewpoint (miradoura) with a view of the replica Golden Gate Bridge made by the same architect as the one in San Francisco. I guess if you know someone who can build a bridge that can sustain earthquakes, you tell your friends.

While making our way uphill, I started talking to two women from Lyon who were also in Lisbon for their first time. In a first for me, my French was good enough to help translate some what João said for them (including a really well-played joke at the expense of the American healthcare system). I definitely wasn’t perfect, but I was so proud of myself, and they were so appreciative of the translation. One of them even asked if she could take a picture with me!

After the lookout, we made our way past the old castle (not actually built by the Portuguese nor did Portuguese rulers live there for that long) and wound our way through the maze-like streets of Alfama, the old part of Lisbon.

Here, as in other parts of the city, the walls were covered with some fascinating street art. But in Alfama, there are some portraits that are sanctioned by the city as they showcase the images of local celebrities, often the grandmothers of the area.

We got to meet one such grandmother as we stopped at her store (also her house) to try Ginjinha, a Portuguese cherry liquor that I thought tasted like cough syrup. Many of the people in this area have been there for generations, and like in Porto, the increase in rent prices has made it a challenge for people to stay there. It was nice to be able to support them, even if just buying a small drink.

We ended our tour in front of the big cathedral, where João serenaded us with a traditional goodbye song then invited whoever wanted to join him for lunch at a traditional restaurant. Having no lunch plans, I went, along with a woman from Germany, woman from Brazil, man from Canada, and man from London. One of the benefits of going to a Portuguese restaurant with someone who is Portuguese meant asking for their recommendations. I ordered a seafood rice dish—complete with prawns, mussels, and lobster—that was probably my favorite meal I had in Portugal. The wonderful conversation about travel, sports, comedy, and other common topics also made it a fantastic experience.

Leaving my group, I met up with Mareike to go to the LX factory, a warehouse turned hipster art stores that would be at home in any downtown area of a major city. It was nice to walk around the stores, but the real fun was getting to know Mareike better as we compared holiday customs, shared about our families, and shared what we would recommend someone do if they were visiting our cities. She had the easier task as Berlin is a very accessible tourist city and the LA tourist sites are…well…not great. But, I maintained that if you have someone to show you around, LA is awesome.

When we were done with the hipster art mall, we decided we’d walk to another part of the city. Google said it was “mostly flat” and it wasn’t raining at the time, so we decided an hour long walk would be nice.

I don’t know what Google’s definition of mostly flat is, but we traversed across the steepest hill we had all day—and it just kept going. Then, the rain started and I had left my umbrella at the hostel. So, maybe walking back wasn’t the greatest call. But, it was nice to see some more residential areas of Lisbon. And, it made it that I kept up with my streak of walking around an entire city on the first day I was there as our walk took us through the newer neighborhoods not covered in the tour.

By the time we got back to the hostel, it was Sangria Hour, and we once again met a group of people looking to go out that night.

I had really wanted to go find a jazz bar that came highly recommended, so we invited a few other people to join us for that. A few soon became 7, which is my least favorite number of people to be in a group with, and the night was getting a little out of hand as we waited an hour past when Mareike and I wanted to leave to get food as each new person had to go up and grab their coat. Not ideal.

One of the things I’ve learned the past few years is I really don’t like being in small groups. 3 or 4 is fine, but anything more is too complicated. And our leaving the hostel venture was just one example of that. I have no patience for group think or group timing, and that night very much tested my patience.

Because a lot of the group had already eaten, Mareike and I stopped at a small deli for sandwiches that we scarfed down since people were waiting for us. Then, the jazz bar hadn’t opened yet and people didn’t feel like waiting as it was supposed to have opened a half an hour before.

A stroke of luck would have it, we got all 7 of us into a fado restaurant, but ordering drinks became complicated when people kept changing what they wanted to be most cost effective as a group. Let’s not even get into splitting the check.

Despite all that, the fado concert was incredible, and I could kind of tune out the nonsense going on around me and zero in on the haunting voices of the man and woman who performed. Their duet was one of the most sensual, romantic things I’ve ever heard and I have absolutely no idea what it said. Even though I didn’t get to hear Portuguese jazz, the fado concert was something special and it made up for a rather frustrating evening.

The next morning, I had told two of the people from the night before I would go to Sintra with them. A recovering #peoplepleaser, I met them to go to the train station, even though I got a vibe the night before that I didn’t jive with them (that’s fine, I’m sure they felt that about me as well).

By the time we made it to the train station, my #maincharacterenergy kicked in again, and I simply told them I was going to do my own thing when I got to Sintra. I felt a little bad at first (mainly because we still had the train ride), but I am so glad I listened to myself and did my own thing. Especially since they were planning to hike up to the palace, and having taken an Uber instead, I think it would have taken all day to get up there and we would have missed our entry time. In fact, I think they did miss the entry time, which made me laugh a little bit since they were the ones being so agressive about when et had to leave that morning. I didn’t see them after we parted ways, and I truly hope they had a lovely day.

As I was now on my own, I went through the palace fairly quickly—as quick as I could anyway, since the entire thing was one big line. Again I was reminded that staged palace rooms are not the most interesting to me, but the views from the palace were worth it. As was exploring the palace grounds which were included in the ticket.

The palace grounds were nothing short of magical. As I wandered by myself, I felt like I was lost in a fairytale world, taking in views of the lush greenery, sounds of the chirping birds, and scents of the slightly wet pine. Having been traveling for close to a week now and with a lot of people, this respite was exactly what I needed to reset from the night before and that morning.

In fact, I think it’s what allowed me to tap into my #maincharachterenergy once more and make a bold decision.

Here’s where the surprise part comes in.

I was having a lovely lunch of tapas in Sintra and I was scrolling Instagram (as you do). There, I saw that one of the actors from Candice Renoir was going to be showing his directorial debut film (that also happens to feature most of the cast of Candice Renoir) at a town 2 hours outside of Bordeaux called Sarlat. Well…Sarlat was on my list anyway, and Bordeaux was the city I had planned to go to next…so…

I am now on a train from Bordeaux to Sarlat with a ticket in hand to attend the film festival.

I had very much enjoyed Portugal, but I knew I was ready to get to France. The universe knew it too, as I was able to book a cheap flight, cheap hostel, and cheap train to change my plans on a whim.

I had a lovely time in Portugal, and there are places I hope I’ll get to explore someday. For now—on y va!

Highs of Coimbra/Lisbon/Sintra: The beautiful forest in Sintra and the hauntingly beautiful Fado in Coimbra and Lisbon.

Lows of Coimbra/Lisbon/Sintra: Annoying group think and a Hangry Melanie. And Google’s misguided understanding of “mostly flat”

Biggest surprises: Changing my plans on a dime and feeling okay with it.

Porto, Portugal: A Better Butt—15,000 steps at a time

In my last post, I claimed that this trip was going to be my “Main Character Energy” trip…unapologetically taking up space and living my best life.

First thing on Saturday, that “main character energy” quickly proved to be less of the “glamorous movie star” and more the “quirky romcom lead who is kind of a mess, but gosh we love her”. This should come as a surprise to no one—least of all my former students who decided I wrote “memoirs” instead of sitcom pilots.

On Friday evening, I had booked a free walking tour of Old Porto at 10:45. Planning for the free breakfast at my hostel and time to walk to our meeting spot, I set my alarm for 8:30. However, after a night of nightmares sponsored by #jetlag, I was up every hour. So, when I finally slept, I slept hard…and I woke up at 11:10. Allegedly my alarm was going off in my headphones for an hour. Unfortunately, I was not wearing said headphones.

Fortunately, however, I had an email from the tour company and a number to call. And, as luck would have it (and any RomCom in the 2000s), they told me if I could make it to the train station in 10 minutes, I could probably still catch the guide. Great news—my hostel was literally in the train station. So, I threw in clothes, brushed my teeth, ran downstairs and across to the train lobby, and met up with my group in a record 2 minutes. As I profusely apologized to the tour guide, he told me not to worry and I was already adjusted Portuguese time.

If you are wondering why the tour was spending 30 minutes in a train station, I should note that São Bento Train Station is gorgeous. It’s covered in tile murals that tells the story of Portugal’s founding and highlights some of the main industries in Porto, namely cork and wine. Tiles are a main feature of Porto, thanks to Arabic influences, and intricately painted tiles can be seen all throughout the city.

Porto São Bento station

From the train station, our tour passed by several churches (Portugal is a Catholic country, after all), the main theater (that puts on plays in Portuguese complete with English subtitles), and the French inspired high street. Our tour guide explained that tourism has really only blossomed in Porto in the last 10 years, and as a result, you see more street performers entertaining crowds. When we passed, a couple was dancing the most beautiful samba—it was so mesmerizing that I had a hard time paying attention to the tour sometimes!

Our guide also explained that architecture and avenues weren’t the only French inspired influences in Porto—one of the city’s most celebrated meals is a Portuguese take on a Croque Monsieur. Except, the creator of the Francesinha looked at the French version and said “hold my port” and saw the ham, cheese, and béchamel, and raised it to include layers of ham, steak, cured meats, melted cheese, and a tomato and beer sauce. Our guide pointed out several of the best francesinha spots, as they aren’t all created equal, but I have to confess, I did not try one. Nor did I try one of the other local delicacies of tripe stew. I can be adventurous when I’m traveling, but something about tripe makes my insides curdle.

I did, however, partake in one of the nation’s most beloved items—the pastel de nata, a delicious custard tart that just melts in your mouth and can be purchased at any cafe for about a euro. As I missed breakfast that morning, I was perfectly happy with my Pastel that I got on our break.

One of my favorite parts of doing these tours is meeting people from around the world and asking them about their travels while walking. On this tour, I met 2 men from Düsseldorf, a couple from Berlin, a woman from Chicago, and a very talkative man from Scotland. The Scottish guy quickly attached to me and started chatting up a storm. It’s a shame I sincerely could not understand a word he said. He seemed so nice!

After our break, we winded our way through the wind to the high bridge to get a view of the Douro River. A quirk about Porto—the weather is erratic. And I’m saying that as someone from Colorado where the state motto is “if you don’t like the weather, wait 10 minutes, it will change”. The forecast had rain every day I was in Porto, but that really meant it would rain for 2 minutes and then be fine for 30 then rain for 2 minutes again on and off throughout the day. When we got to the high bridge over the river, the wind was so strong I was a little afraid about being knocked over.

View from the high bridge

Having survived the bridge, we made our dissent through the beautiful —and steep—streets of the oldest part of Porto to the river. Our guide explained that while tourism has been a great thing for the Portuguese economy, it doesn’t come without challenges as people in the old part of the city are being priced out of their houses and Jen landlords want to turn areas into tourist spots. Our guide stressed that we shouldn’t feel bad, he is a tour guide after all, but he gave us some tips and places to go to better support the local economy.

We finished our tour down at the waterfront, and my goal was to grab lunch on the way because I knew I needed some more sustenance than a small custard tart after 3 hours of a walking tour and a steep trek uphill. Apparently, my body knew this too because when attempting to cross a street, my knee gave out and I tumbled right onto the sidewalk. As I did promise “main character energy”, I was indeed helped up by a man passing by. As the energy is still quirky 2000s romcom, he was in his 60s. Not quite the meet cute we hoped for.

I’m pleased to say I did make it back up hill and had a real lunch (a sandwich and another pastel de nata) before joining my second walking tour.

Two walking tours could seem quite ambitious for my first day, but as I slept till 11:10, I was raring to go, and I have been known to cover an entire city on foot the first day (Anna, I know you have comments about this. Porto is much smaller of the size of Paris).

Since I made this tour on time, I was there to meet everyone and where they came from. To my delight, there were 3 women from France, one of whom lived in Bordeaux, which will be my first stop in France. I spoke to them (in French!) and they gave me their numbers to meet up with them when I am there. I’m so proud of myself…though, I do have to say, it’s much harder to understand French without the subtitles…

This tour took us through the more modern parts of Porto, beginning with the Avenue of Allies, so named for the alliance Portugal established with the WWI allies when it became a republic for the first time. Our guide explained that much of the architecture in the newer, republican part of Porto was inspired by the French, a theme that would come up a few times, to the chagrin of my nouvelle amies française (new French friends) who didn’t think the French quarter meant to look like Paris looked anything like Paris (I agree).

Porto City Hall

This tour covered less ground, both physically and historically, but we got a good history lesson though Portugal’s establishment as a republic in the early 20th century, dissent into a dictatorship, and reemergence as a republic in the 1970s. Apparently, Portugal had the longest (or one of the longest) dictatorships in all of Europe when it was under the rule of “a dorky numbers guy, not war hero” named Salazar. Our guide explained how proud they are of those who resisted the regime, showing us how the professors of the resistance are commemorated at the university.

Speaking of the university, outside of the main building, there is a fountain with griffins around it. Allegedly, a certain Scottish author of a wizarding series lived in Porto and may have gotten the inspiration for the name of the hero’s house from that fountain. She also may have been inspired by the name of the dictator and bestowed that name upon the founder of the house of the villains. Additionally, the famous bookstore of Porto supposedly was influential as well…though the author reportedly denies having been in it. More on that later…

Griffin Fountain and Porto University

At the end of the tour, I continued on with two of the other women I met—Jordan from San Diego and Johanna from Vienna. Jordan had yet to go down to the river, so we decided it was worth the venture down the hill. While the river was pretty during the day, it was stunning at night as the lights and stars glistened and reflected off the water. We strolled along the river before making our way back up the steep hill.

New Friends at the River

A word about Porto. Lisbon may be the city of 7 hills, but Porto has several steep ones as well. And pretty much wherever you are, you’re going up or down. While my lower back doesn’t love this, my butt is going to look great after this trip.

We made our way in the rain to a cute kiosk newsstand turned bar, and we had a (cheaaaap) drink before restaurants opened for dinner. I love the deep conversations you have with people you have just met. Over our drinks and subsequent dinner at a vegetarian restaurant, we shared not only delicious small plates (including a tasty but baffling dish called eggplant schnitzel), but also stories of travel, jobs, thoughts on politics, music taste, times we’ve almost gotten scammed, and much more. I left with two new friends—one of whom lives only 2 hours away!

When I got back to the hostel, I did briefly check out the lively Brazilian music night on the third floor. It was packed with local musicians playing instruments and singing and locals filled the dance floor singing along. I’m glad I went to check it out, but my jet lag caught up with me earlier than the 7 AM and that many others called it a night (I, fortunately, wasn’t disturbed by noise, but I did hear people the next morning who clearly had not gone to bed yet).

I triple-checked that I set my alarm for the next morning, which was necessary because that was the day I booked my all day wine tour to the Douro Valley. Not to let New York have all the fun, it also happened to be the day of the Porto marathon, which meant I had to leave extra early to make our meeting spot. I’m pleased to say I did, and I easily found my group because there were 7 other people looking terribly confused in the square as we waited for our guide. Sarah, our intrepid driver and guide, picked us up right at 9 and off we went.

Before I came to Portugal, one of the few things I had booked was a Douro tour, and I spent multiple nights debating which one to do…I’m so glad I chose the one I ended up on, because we had a lovely group and a fantastic guide (and, it was the most affordable!). Our group of 8 included me, Rachel from the UK, Sandra and Bianca from Sydney, Gene and Mary from Dallas (a retired couple traveling for 60+ days!), and Isa and Rosa from NYC. Pretty much from the jump, we all got along talking to each other and enjoying the multitude of information that Sarah shared with us. Once again, we all shared stories about our lives, cities, and interests, making a great cross cultural experience!

The tour took us out of Porto and through the valley, where it was miraculously sunny and much warmer than the city. We passed into the “mountains” (hills) and under a long tunnel, which Sarah said reminded her of Colorado (gotta love a shout out!). The Douro Valley is also just a stunning place to drive through, and with perfect sunny weather, the fall leaves were vibrant and I finally got my taste of fall I miss back in LA!

Douro Valley

On the drive to our first stop, Sarah explained the process of making port, which is demarcated by stopping the fermentation process of the grapes and adding brandy. This keeps sugar in the wine and creates a higher alcohol content…so port packs a punch! There are 4 types of port: rosé (the newest), white, ruby, and tawny. If you are a fan of port, you’ve likely had ruby or tawny.

Our first stop was one of the large-scale producers where we got a short tour of the vines and learned about their wine making process. Good news, grape stomping is alive and well in Porto!

Here, we tried 2 ports—a rosé and a ruby. Both were too sweet for me, but the rosé mixed with tonic water made for a great cocktail!

We left that Quinta (the Portuguese word for farm, five, and Thursday), and made our way to the Quinta where we would have lunch. There, we enjoyed a lovely meal with house wine, a salad, traditional vegetable soup, a cod dish that was shredded cod mixed with hash browns and eggs (salty, but so good), and a chocolate cake. The chocolate cake was the perfect pairing for the 10 year tawny port that the farm specializes in.

After our lunch, we went into the port cave where we were joined by a fun group of women from Ireland to learn how to taste 20- and 30- year tawny port. To drink aged port correctly, you are supposed to swish it around in your mouth like mouthwash until it burns, then sip in air, feel your mouth tingle, and drink the rest. I wouldn’t say it was a pleasant feeling, but I also didn’t hate it. The 30 year was much smoother, almost caramel-like, so I get why this is a dessert drink.

From there, our Irish friends joined us for our last farm, which was a small, organic producer. In addition to their lovely rosé, white (an interesting herbaceous flavor I’ve never tasted before!), and their red, we tried three types of honey, all differentiated by the plants the bees pollinated. We also tried their olive oil, which was some of the best olive oil I’ve ever had.

Leaving that farm, we venture back to Porto, during which Rachel and I had a very lively discussion about which British competition shows I love. To her delight, people in the US know Paul Hollywood.

After a fantastic, and full, day, I made my way to one of the most famous pastel de nata cafes for a sandwich, tea, and pastel de nata. I can honestly say there’s a reason it earns the title (I’m now an expert).

Today, I had no tours planned, so I had time to revisit some of the places I had passed on my tours. First stop was the Livraria Lello, the famous library that may or may not have inspired spaces in Harry Potter. With the semi-spiral staircases staircases, and whimsical design, I would believe it. It was definitely worth a trip, though because of the crowds, it was very hard to get around. Anyone who has been with me in Time Square and/or anywhere with spiral stairs knows how much I love being pushed by crowds and spiral staircases, so I didn’t spend as much time in there as I could have. I was, however, enticed by the lovely room featuring specialty-printed copies of Le Petit Prince, so I picked up a French copy as my souvenir from Porto (yes, yes, I know).

Livraria Lello

After that, I went to the Palacio de Bolsa, the seat of the chamber of commerce. It was billed as one of the most beautiful buildings in Porto, and it was pretty, but I’m not sure it was worth the walking tour for me. That said, the Gold Room was exquisite, and it’s good to know it’s available for weddings, concerts, and divorce parties!

The Gold Room

Taking advantage of the best weather I had in Porto, I walked back down to the river before snaking my way to the main market. I love a good food market, and this was a delight. In addition to your traditional stalls of produce, meat, cheese, and fish, there were many stalls serving small bites. You could easily fashion a meal having one bite here and another there. My lunch, therefore, consisted of a shrimp empada, a cod croquette, some cheese bites, a cottage cheese and pumpkin pie, another fish cake, and an oyster with sea urchin. All accompanied by the glass of dry white I could carry around the market. It was heaven.

After a thoroughly full few days in Porto, I walked off my lunch going back to my hostel before getting my bus to Coimbra.

Porto was such a lovely introduction to Portugal, and it got me in shape for the rest of the hills in this country. I am now in Coimbra, a university city, for a night, and I am about to see Fado concert. So far, it’s a lovely ambiance!

Highs of Porto: The beauty Douro Valley tour and all the cross cultural exchanges I had.

Lows of Porto: The crowds in the library were a bit overwhelming, and I definitely had to take some deep breaths after.

Biggest Surprises: I found cod dishes I like! Maybe it depends on how they’re cooked…

C’est Parti!

I’m baaaaack. If you’re reading this, that means I have once again left the confines of the United States of America to explore other areas of this planet as it makes its trip around the sun—this time featuring Portugal and France. Though I once planned on using this blog a place to share my everyday musings, Substack came about, and now I share my musings there with the aptly titled Melanie’s Musings. To be honest, I thought about retiring this blog altogether—transferring my travel thoughts to the more direct newsletter.

Upon reflection, I’ve decided to resurrect the blog for travel. These posts tend to be a bit longer than those I share with my newsletter audience, and I kinda like the travel journal having its own home. I’ll probably do some crossover episodes with the newsletter, so if you do subscribe to that — look for the reruns soon to be in syndication.

Now that the preamble is complete…

I recently read an article on Skyscanner’s website that showcased their predicted travel trends based on a recent survey. Among the most common reasons people travel were exploring new cultures (duh), adventure travel (not my cup of tea, but have at it), concert tickets (if you couldn’t get tickets for Taylor Swift at your home arena, you could always try somewhere else), and food experiences (again, duh). One trend, however, particularly spoke to me: “Main Character Energy.”

This spoke to me for two reasons:

1. It was very reminiscent of one of my favorite movie quotes, which is Kate Winslet’s line “You should be the main character in your own life!”. Fittingly, she says as her character is learning to take up main character space in The Holiday.
2. If you’ve talked to me even for 5 seconds since May this year, you’ve definitely heard me talk about Candice Renoir, a French comedy procedural that, I kid you not, changed my life—and inspired part of this trip.

The Skyscanner “trend” referred to the idea that people are traveling to places where their favorite shows are set or filmed to “embrace the cultural zeitgeist and step into the shoes of their favorite on screen character.” I’m here to confirm that trend is accurate .

While I was planning the trip to Portugal—a weeklong trip to explore a country I had never been to—I began watching Candice Renoir. Something about her character, the beautiful views of Sète, and the return of the French language to my brain encouraged me to take advantage of my #remotework life and extend my trip to add a bit of the South of France, yes including the filming locations of my beloved commandante and her sexy adjoint (deputy). That second week became a third week when I realized that coming home before Thanksgiving seemed like a silly proposition, especially since I had two free days off.

But, for me, that “Main Character Energy” is bigger than just going to the locations in which my favorite shows are filmed (more on that later). It is no accident that I grouped together the quote from The Holiday with my affinity for and connection to Candice Renoir. In both instances, the characters concerned are women who have previously lived their lives at the behest of other people and are learning to take up space, live life on their terms, and break out of a box.

Whether it be in these incarnations or others (Diane Lane in…well anything…but Under The Tuscan Sun comes to mind), I have always related to this character. A woman who knows she is more, but hasn’t exactly figured out how to let herself live life on her terms in a society that often asks them to fit certain expectations. Then, we watch as they embrace all of their qualities—and faults—as full human beings, often embracing their whimsy, quirks, and own ways of doing things.

As I said above, Candice Renoir really did change my life this year. I’ve been going through this process of transformation and allowing myself to be me, without worrying about judgment from myself or others, for the last few years. Seeing it so perfectly mirrored on screen—a character full of whimsy, zest for life, kindness, and growing self-confidence—reminded me that I get to be the main character in my own life, embracing everything that goes along with it.

I’ve long said that I think solo traveling brings out my best, most confident self. I’m not sure why that is, but it’s been the experience I’ve had each time I’ve stepped off a plane into an airport in another part of the world. My love of adventure, culture, and people are all ignited, and I start walking taller, smiling more, and noticing the little things around me that add whimsy to my day.

This was certainly true when I got off my long haul flight from LA to Heathrow today. On the long (long, long) plane, I started feeling my normal pre-trip jitters, and a familiar dialogue came back to my in my head “What the heck am I doing? I’m going to be gone for three weeks by myself, what if I meet no one? What if it’s all overwhelming?” As soon as I got off the plane, this voice disappeared.

I remember the first time I went to Heathrow Airport when I was 13, and I was immediately taken in by its grandeur. As my most frequented airports at that time were DIA and LaGuardia (with its gourmet food option of Sbarros), the designer stores and brightly lit duty-free shops that lined the corridors seemed magical to my teenage self who was enamored by glamour (let’s be honest, I still am). Though, as a teenager, I was too overwhelmed to feel like I could ever be that posh (despite always claiming Posh for our Spice Girl role plays).

Though I still don’t know if I’m that posh, I was pleased to see that my memory of Heathrow held up. The British Airways international/Europe terminal has your normal airport restaurants, Starbucks, and Newstands complete with designer stores, a mini-Harrods, a mini Fortnum and Mason, and not one, but TWO caviar bars.

I didn’t have the time nor the £80 to spend on caviar and champagne, so I settled from a meal deal at the WHS instead—side note: this sandwich, chips, and drink deal was £5. An American airport would have charged $15 for the sandwich and it would have been soggier. Get it together, US.

While I didn’t eat there, I did indulge my main character energy and wander through the very posh aisles of Fortnum and Mason. Complete with holiday whimsy.

Fortnum and Mason Christmas Windows

That energy followed me on my connecting flight, through the airport to easily find the metro, to catch my train to Porto. Much easier than my first solo travel transportation venture in Vietnam.

While waiting for my train, I woman came up to ask me about the which train was coming to the platform. I must have looked very comfortable, because she started speaking to me in Portuguese, a language I know about 4 words of and have recently discovered I have a very hard time understanding.

Fortunately for me, she spoke English, and I learned that she was from Iran getting her PhD in electrical engineering in Aveiro—a city near Porto. She was so excited to show me pictures of her adopted home city, and I was so grateful that she gave me ideas of things to do.

The rest of the day went fairly easily, despite my being in the wrong seat on the train not once, but twice.

Having made it to Porto, I am now having my first meal in Portugal. The classic Portuguese cheeseburger, fries, and beer. What can I say, there aren’t many options at 10 PM.

My hostel has a karaoke night tonight. Part of me feels silly about staying in a hostel, but honestly, I really like them, and I don’t really care about my room since I’ll spend most of my time out of it. If I can save money for other experiences, and meet new people, I’m going to embrace that too.

And the 18 year old I met when I got in told me I don’t look 33–which I’m taking as a massive main character energy compliment.

I’ll be in Porto for the next 3 days. I don’t have much planned, but I am sure it will be an adventure!

Highs of day 1: Meeting the woman at the train station and sharing a really special moment.

Lows of day 1: The woman on my flight from London to Lisbon glaring daggers at me when I asked if I could get out to go to the bathroom. She was annoyed she had to get up for me already—to let me into my seat.

Biggest surprises of day 1: Portuguese trains have assigned seats. Good to know.

I will arise

When I was in Ireland two weeks ago, I posted a reel (trying to become an Insta influencer, obvi.) with the background of Ola Gjeilo’s “Lake Isle”—a beautiful setting of W.B. Yeats’s poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”.

This has been one of my favorite poems since I sang Eleanor Daly’s arrangement of it in my high school choir (and, subsequently, sang it in All-State Choir that same year). It’s contributed to the idyllic image of Ireland I conjured up, and was a major inspiration for my trip. If you’re unfamiliar with the poem, the text is as follows;

I will arise and go now, go to Innisfree
A small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there,
A hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there
For peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veil of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement’s grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

W.B. Yeats

When I knew I was leaving teaching in 2020, my therapist at the time asked me what I wanted. I said time and space.

I wanted the space from the hustle of a public high school. I wanted space from the stress of recruiting for a choir program, directing concerts, and feeling disappointed that I was burnt out of teaching. I wanted space from the pressure to know what I was doing with my life. I wanted the space and peace described in this poem.

I wanted to go to Ireland.

Of course, March 2020 happened, and I got time and space…not quite in the way I meant. In the two years since that initial request, I reestablished myself and found a new life in LA. I made new friends, started a new career, and immersed myself in new activities and a new community. I have taken writing classes, performed standup, gone to fancy parties (when safe to do so), spent weekend days at the beach, and eaten a ton of tacos and Thai food.

Now, no one would say that LA captures that idyllic air that Yeats wrote about, but I have gone through a rebirth in a way. In the last two years, I have really begun to find myself. To arise anew in LA.

With all the new parts of myself I have unlocked in the last two years, there were two things that are integral to my life that the pandemic made it hard to do: travel and sing in a choir.

Living in LA has given me the opportunity to experience a lot of the things I love about travel—a mix of cultures, new food, museums, entertainment. But, after a while, LA became where I live. Though I do make it a point to explore LA and not take the amazing things here for granted, it’s also easy to get lost in the day-to-day monotony of life and forget to take advantage of the excitement that is around me every day. I have long said I feel most myself while traveling—maybe it’s because I put everyday worries aside and confidently make decisions about how I will spend my day.

At the same time, this has been the longest stretch of time I have ever gone without performing music. A lot of that was my choice. I burnt out of teaching choir, recognizing that turning something I’m so passionate about into a full-day job took a lot of the joy out of it for me. However, I am a musician at my core, so a part of me was missing since I wasn’t singing.

So, two weeks ago, I went to Ireland and the pictures I imagined sprang to life in front of my eyes. Ireland had the bluest water, the greenest hills, and an air of peace. More than that, Ireland had music. Everywhere I went in Ireland I experienced music. Live music was everywhere—every bar I went to had a band playing. Sometimes it was modern music, other times a group of musicians got together for a session and played traditional tunes. Often, people in the bar would talk while musicians played in the background, but everyone went silent when there was a singer.

I used to tell my students that music is nothing if it’s not communication, and one of the things that set choral music apart from other disciplines was the inclusion of words. The storytelling is inherent to the art form because the music is meant to enhance the poetry. This idea was so evident each time a crowd went silent to listen to a singer in an Irish pub. Each note they sang had such purpose, and the singers knew used their instruments to share a message with everyone who listened. On one of the last days of my trip, some pub-goers included me in the singing—convincing me to sing the one Irish folk song I knew (Danny Boy) for a room full of Irish musicians.

And I cried. After two years of missing travel and music, I had both back in my life. Just like that.

When I got back to the states, it became even more important to me that I reignite my search to join a choir. As luck would have it, I didn’t have to search long. As soon as I got home, my friend Lynn texted me saying that she was joining her old choir and that I should message the director. Lynn and I have talked about singing together, but the timing and choirs haven’t worked out so far. Lynn seemed enthusiastic about this group, so I messaged the director to set up an audition.

I’m a firm believer that when things are meant to happen, they happen with a speed at which you can’t anticipate. Five minutes after I sent a message to the director, he called me back to set up an audition time. That Friday, I was at his house for an audition…which turned into an hour long discussion about choral music, jazz choir, and providing a safe space for kids…and a five minute audition.

By the following Wednesday, I was singing in the choir.

Which takes me back to “Lake Isle” and Ola Gjeilo. I am no stranger to singing Ola Gjeilo. In fact, I would venture to say that Ola Gjeilo is the composer I have sung most since 2013, having performed “Sunrise Mass” among other pieces at CU and a whole half a concert of Gjeilo (including Sunrise) while singing in Colorado Springs. I like a lot of the Gjeilo I have sung, but my favorite piece of his is Lake Isle. There’s something about the setting of the music that perfectly captures the idyllic serenity that Yeats describes in his poem. While I was on the Aran Islands, I found a print of Yeats’s poem. I immediately bought it, prompting me to set my pictures of that day to Gjeilo’s work.

The first piece I saw in my choir folder on Wednesday was Ola Gjeilo’s “Lake Isle.”

Over the last few years, I’ve talked a lot about synchronicity—paying attention to the signs I’ve gotten from the universe, the coincidences that have happened that have led me to where I’m at now. These always have been moments I couldn’t have predicted but have poetically proved to me that I’m on the right path in my life.

This was one of those moments.

When the pandemic hit, I wasn’t sure what my life would look like—I certainly didn’t expect to be in LA. When I got to LA, I thought I put my musician life behind me. I certainly had no idea when I would get to Ireland.

The last two years have been a series of ups and downs: lockdowns, rejections, new jobs, new friends, lost friends, break-ups, new relationships, lack of direction, new directions. Each turn has felt both surprising and inevitable (like a good improv scene), and despite the challenges, I haven’t given up on this new life.

Perhaps my favorite parts of Yeats’s poem are the first and lines. And, in a strange way, these lines really capture my life in the last few years.

Maybe for the first time, I am listening to my”deep heart’s core”. I came to LA, started a new career, and put myself out there in ways that past versions of Melanie would have shied away from.

Maybe that’s why the poem and song has reemerged in my life so much recently. I’m no longer sitting idle and waiting. Instead…

I will arise and go.

Doolin and Dingle: Thank you for the music

Friday morning, I left my hostel and left on my third trip from Galway—this time bidding Galway farewell and heading south to The Burren and The Cliffs of Moher.

If you have only heard about a few tourist attractions in Ireland, one of them is likely Cliffs of Moher. So, even though I had seen them from the water the day before, I was excited to catch another glimpse from the top. But, more on that later…

Our first leg of the tour was leaving Galway for The Burren, a National Park in County Clare made up of a karst landscape and lush farmland. The Burren is unique because of the limestone karst that forms the terrain. Because of this, the farmers can’t plant or sow anything too deep, but the grass is rich with nutrients for thriving livestock.

The Burren

As we drove out of Galway, we passed the beach and the bay, and the driver told us a little about the history of fishing in Galway.

Or, I think he did. I was too busy chatting with my seat mate. One of my favorite parts of all of these tours has been sitting with people from around the world and learning a bit about them. On this tour, I sat next to Mariana, an opera singer from Argentina who was working a temp job in Galway after putting her opera career on hold during the pandemic. Mariana was going on the tour with her sisters who were visiting, and she could not have been more friendly. Needless to say, the minute she said opera, we clicked and began discussing our favorite composers (Puccini), roles (Butterfly), and languages to sing in (hers was Italian, mine is German). This was yet another one of those moments of my trip in which the world became a little smaller. We shared so many romantic notions of storytelling through music, and it made for a truly delightful conversation.

Our tour through The Burren took us through several small villages, and our bay driver did a great job of explaining what they were known for. First village we passed, for example, was known for its oysters. In fact, they are the oysters served by the royal family whenever they have oysters! Other villages specialized in chocolate and boating, many of them holding yearly festivals to celebrate their specialty.

Our first stop in The Burren was Dungauire Castle. As we had a big agenda, we only made a 10 minute stop at the small castle to take some pictures. Turns out, this was probably plenty as most of the castle had been converted to a gift shop (like all good castles are). The views of the Burren from the castle were worth it, though, as the fog was starting to clear and we got a great look at some typical Burren topography.

The Burren

As we continued our journey, our bus driver explained that the word Burren comes from an old Celtic word meaning “rocky area.” The land of the Burren dates back 13 million years, and it was most likely ocean floor and was located somewhere in the tropics before shifting into its current spot. Because I’d the tropical history, The Burren ground is warmer than other ground in the country and spring growth starts here before anywhere else. The region is home to over 600 different species of plants and wildlife, including some more tropical types. Sinéad had told me there were palm trees in Ireland, and I scoffed… I stand corrected!

Our second stop on our trip down the coast was the Aillwee Cave—a cave system formed by melting water from the Ice Age. Having booked the tour primarily for the Cliffs and a ride from Galway to Doolin, this stop (and subsequent tour) was a total surprise to me. We went through the cave in groups, learning about the formation of the rock structures, stalactites and stalagmites, and how the caves are still changing. While not the most awe-inspiring cave I’ve ever been in, it was an informative tour and cool to learn about what has been found there. Recently, bones were found in the cave, belonging to a species of bear that had been extinct in Ireland for 3,000 years. While they don’t know quite how the bones got there, it’s generally thought that the bears hibernated in the cave. The bones date from 4,000 and 10,000 years ago—that’s a long hibernation!

Alliwee Cave

We left the cave, continuing our windy path through the Burren before making our way to The Cliffs of Moher—the real reason most people booked the tour.

The Cliffs of Moher are the second most popular tourist attraction in Ireland, right behind the Guinness factory. I’m not quite sure that those priorities are straight, but I can make an argument for it.

We had an hour and a half to walk along the Cliffs, and I’m tempted to say that it wasn’t enough. As majestic as the Cliffs were from the water, the perspective up top on a perfectly clear day is breathtaking. It’s truly incredibly that these 200-meter tall columns were formed so perfectly along the Irish coast line.

Cliffs of Moher

I stood at the edge (well near the edge…I’m not an idiot). So much of this trip for me has been awakening my creativity. As I watched the water lap against the cliff side, I felt an ineffable sense of wonder—maybe it’s knowing that the same water carved these cliffs eons ago or knowing that artists have been inspired by these same cliffs for centuries. Whatever it was, I became inspired to write in a way I haven’t in at least a year. I listened to the busker play as I walked along the Cliffs, and a random tales started forming in my head. I’m not sure what they will be, but the Cliffs unlocked stories I’m excited to explore.

After touring the Cliffs, our tour group made it to Doolin for lunch where we are at the Doolin Hotel and brewery. I walked into the dining room, and a woman on my tour group tapped me on the shoulder. She had been sitting in front of me and heard me say I am a writer (reclaiming that title), and she wondered what I wrote. I explained that I’m not really sure, but I hoped this trip helped me get back into it. Since the group was having lunch together, she asked if I’d like to sit with her for lunch.

As we ate (I had a great smoked salmon Caesar salad), I learned about her life—going from a Navy nurse in Vietnam to being in public service to ultimately becoming a Presbyterian minister in Chicago. I have struggled with figuring my life path over the last few years, and listening to her incredible experiences gave me a nice reminder that I didn’t have to have it all figured out now…or maybe ever. She was traveling through Ireland for the first time to connect with her ancestry, and we talked about how the pandemic impacted her travel plans. Hearing her express gratitude for even being able to take this trip at all reminded me to stop and really appreciate how lucky I am to be here. It’s so easy to get caught up in running constantly, looking for the next thing, but it’s more important to be present and focus o what is true right now. And at that moment, it was a lovely lunch with a new acquaintance.

After lunch, I left the bus tour in Doolin and walked to my B&B. Doolin is a quaint little town, spread out across the coast and hills. It doesn’t have a town center as much as other towns I had been to so, so I got to walk by beautiful farms (past cows, donkeys, horses, and sheep) and such as I went to the Lodge. And my B&B was indeed a lodge. I’m not sure its origins, but the stone building (complete with tower) had been converted into an inn for those passing through. I got to my room and took a bit of a rest as the day had been quite full by 4;00, and I knew I had a big night ahead…

Sun sets pretty late in Ireland in the summer, so after my walk, I decided to walk down towards the water to catch a bit of golden hour sunlight. The water itself was a little bit farther than I bargained, but I passed a golf course (of course) with a perfect view of the Cliffs of Moher. From a third angle, the Cliffs were still spectacular—especially in the golden light of the setting sun. I had hoped to get to see the Cliffs once in my journey, and I lucked into perfect weather for three different viewings. I have seen some pretty amazing sights on my travels, but something about those Cliffs was special. I’m so grateful to get to carry an image of them with me always.

Golden hour in Doolin

I continued my walk towards a pub where I was going to meet Sinéad for dinner. My bus driver friend told me to go to McGann’s, a local pub at the end of the road, and since I met him in my favorite spot in Galway, I trusted him.

Good thing I did because there was good craic going and it wasn’t even 7! This was very much a place of regulars, so when I sat down at the bar it was clear I was not local. A man sitting in the corner—who was exactly what I’d picture for a man from the Irish country—was already a few pints in, and he called to the bartender to make sure I got to order. He began asking me where I was from, and we started to have a whole conversation about why I was traveling, what I did for a living, and his travels through the US. As he continued talking, he regaled me with stories of meeting American presidents—namely, Kennedy—and shared his thoughts on politics (both Irish and American), and he told me several times that it was clear I was “a real one.” I took this to mean he admired my adventurous spirit.

When Sinéad got there 30 minutes later, he introduced himself as McGann… so I guess I was talking to the owner of the bar for about an hour.

No wonder I felt so well taken care of! He suggested I order the fish and chips (a great selection) and we stayed a bit longer before heading off for the night.

I have been so taken with how friendly everyone has been if I just sit at a bar. I downloaded several books to read, but I haven’t gotten the chance to read any as I’ve always had conversation companions looking to share the craic and a story. I can always check out the books again later.

Sinéad and I left Doolin for the evening to go to Lisdoonvarna. Lisdoonvarna was not originally on my radar, but I overheard two women talking about a matchmaking festival that they traveled to Ireland. Turns out, it is a month long festival that takes place every year in the small town of Lisdoonvarna. I had told my friend Mary about the conversation I overheard, and she practically begged me to go. So, I told Sinéad about it, and her response was “oh that’s on now??”. Turns out, it’s a big deal! She agreed, we absolutely had to go.

So we got to Lisdoonvarna and made our way to the Matchmaker bar, a colorful pub with a big mural upfront, including a portrait of the Matchmaker himself, Willie Daly. Yes, there is an actual matchmaker. Mr. Daly is probably in his 80s, and he has been in the matchmaking business since the 70s. When we got into the bar, there was already a group of women lined up to talk to him.

Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking festival

Instead of making a beeline, we did a lap around the bar, getting drinks and taking stock of who was here. I had heard that the festival was mostly people in their 60s and 70s, but that wasn’t entirely true of the Matchmaker. People of all ages danced to the very lively band—playing a mix of Irish classics and American pop—as men and women got to know each other.

Okay, mostly men. This festival was started to help lonely farmers find love, and I don’t think it has really changed all that much. Groups of men clumped together, sipping their beers, getting a good look at the prospects—we turned heads everywhere we went (of course we did). Unfortunately, none of these guys were quite what I was looking for as most were a good 12 years younger or 25 years older than me—and verrry drunk. Not quite the same appeal as the Galway chaps.

Despite that, Sinéad and I had a great time dancing and people watching. At one point, we got in line to meet Willie and put our hands on his leather matchmaking book and “think of love” to attract our ideal mate. We learned about his matchmaking process, in which we could participate for a “small fee.” As I didn’t plan on moving to Lisdoonvarna, I was out of luck…but it’s good to know I have options if I ever want a green card.

The Matchmaker, Willie Daly

We also went to the other bars, all of which were participating in the matchmaking festival. These dance halls attracted a much older crowd, partner dancing or two-stepping to country music. We were stopped by a few men who hit on us. One tried to get us interested by introducing g us to his friend who “played soccer for Ireland”. Sure. Others would just tap me on the elbow as I walked by. Subtle.

After about two hours, we were tired of getting leered at, so we made our way back to Doolin. Doolin is well known for its trad music, so we found a pub that seemed lively.

The band was in full swing when we got there, and they began playing “The Wild Rover”—my favorite Irish pub song. We sang along, tapping the table to participate in the lively revelry. At one point, a young man came in to sing a few tunes with the band. Like the bar in Galway, everyone stopped talking to listen when he sang, and he sang with such heartbreaking passion that it would have been impossible not to be enchanted. I love how singing is such a part of the culture here. It definitely made me miss performing and singing myself, something I’ll have to look into when I get back.

When we finished our pints (a blood orange cider for me!), we retired for the night to prepare for our drive to Dingle.

After a lovely breakfast of a full vegetarian Irish (eggs, tomatoes, toast, hash brown, and beans), Sinéad and I got in the car and began the trek to County Kerry. We drove through the windy roads in County Clare, past farmland and behind tractors to get to the ferry station that would take us across the bay direct to the more remote county Kerry. We thought we’d be 5 minutes late to the ferry due to the slow tractor on the one lane country road and a detour thanks to a very helpful sign that told us to not follow Sat Nav (GPS) directions, but we drove onto the ferry just in time for it to pull away. What luck!

When we crossed the bay, we made a stop in Tralee, a central city in County Kerry. It wasn’t quite time for lunch, so Sinéad and I stopped in a coffee shop for a lovely lemon and latte while the car charged. I don’t think Tralee sees too many tourists, but I’m glad we stopped in the town. The most surprising part of Tralee was the park that had a monument dedicated to one Neil Armstrong. Yes, that Neil Armstrong. The well known Irishman. Apparently, he had come to Tralee to open an astronomy center, so they have a site in his honor. Go figure.

Neil Armstrong monument in Tralee

We got back on the road and continued our drive to Dingle, opting for the “high road” as suggested by the waitress at the cafe (yes, Loch Lomond has been stuck in my head since she said the words “high road and low road”). The high road was also known as Conor’s Pass, which had been recommended to me by my friend Kathleen. I have driven across many mountain passes before, but Conor’s pass was nothing short of perfection.

It was a perfectly sunny day, so the green mountains popped out against the vibrant blue sky. The waitress had said there was a place you can get out and walk up, so we pulled aside at the first spot and scrambled up a some rocks for a lovely view of a valley. Thinking that was the viewpoint, we were thrilled when we got to the real viewpoint of the pass. The high hill was perfectly situated in between two bays, so a gorgeous green valley was nearly surrounded by water. I am not often speechless, but being able to see for miles across the bay left me with nothing to say. Even though my calves were sore from my Cliff walk the day before, I continued up to nearly the top to get a panoramic view of the valley. I know the weather is rarely that nice in Ireland, so someone really did us a favor by making it crystal clear on our journey.

Conor’s Pass

Taking advantage of the weather, we decided to grab a quick lunch when we got to Dingle and continue with a drive of the Dingle Peninsula. County Kerry is known for its scenic peninsulas (particularly the Ring of Kerry), but my friend Mattea suggested we go to Dingle instead, saying the Slea Head Drive was as beautiful (if not more so) with far fewer tour busses. In fact, we had no tour busses on our route, which provided us the opportunity to amble at our leisure along of every inch of coastline.

Slea Head Drive

The drive took us through farms (I accidentally got a picture of two horses going at it), passed ruins (the famed behave huts), and by crystal clear water. Because it was so clear, we got a great view of the Blasket Islands—two of the bigger islands located in the bay. The Blasket Islands were home to Peig Sayers, a famed Irish storyteller who I learned about in the museum of literature. While there wasn’t a ton to learn along the drive, it was obvious why these islands inspired her poetry so much. I could go on about how beautiful it was, but words really don’t do the views justice. Suffice it to say, the drive was poetic in its natural beauty, and I can see why so many people said I had to go to Dingle.

After our drive, we checked into our B&B and rested a bit before dinner. I love traveling in B&Bs. They are so much more personal than hotels, and there’s something quaint about them that helps me relax. Our Dingle B&B was in the center of town, but it was perfectly insulated from any noise. Perfect for a midday nap.

When Sinéad and I regained our energy, we set out for a night on the town. My bus driver friend had told me that Dingle would provide the good craic on a Saturday night, and once again, he was not wrong. We went to a lovely Italian place for dinner where we both had hearty bowls of pasta—just what we needed before a long night of pub crawl.

The first place we tried to go was only, so we changed course to a nearby pub that had some music going. Unfortunately we got there right as the session was ending, but we decided to stick around for the next set. That idea was cut short when a man who was far too drunk started falling into Sinéad…so we decided to find a new place.

We made our way up the hill to Foxy John‘s a popular Dingle spot for both a pint of beer and a screwdriver as it is a hardware store and pub. For you Angelenos, unlike Laurel Hardware, this place actually is a hardware store and pub… just in case you feel like fixing a shelf after a few pints.

Your average bar/hardware store

The vibe of the pub was quite a bit different than other places I had been the last few days as a DJ in the back played electronic music, and numerous hen and stag parties threw back shots while dancing. Certainly a fun place to dance, and much more my demographic than the dance floors in Lisdoonvarna. We enjoyed a drink there and decided we’d go to the third bar recommended to us, Dick Mack’s brewery and whiskey bar.

This was my favorite place of the night. As soon as we walked in, some men in a stag party saw us and started chatting us up. They found out I was from California and started asking me questions about where I was going in Ireland and singing me questionable renditions of Hotel California. Like most people I have encountered in Ireland, they wanted to know what I thought of the weather, which really had been quite pleasant.

We stayed a bit longer at Dick Mack’s, watching the stag parties get progressively more intoxicated and taking bets on when a man who looked like Gaston would pop out of his very tiny button down shirt (I swear, his biceps were the size of my thighs). As there were quite a lot of stag parties, many of the men we talked to were married (or, maddeningly, hiding their rings), so I can’t say that Dingle was more successful than Lisdoonvarna for matchmaking. Alas.

The next morning, we were greeted by a wall of pervasive mist, and my luck with perfect weather had run out. Fortunately, we did our big scenic drive the day before, so we had planned for a lazy Sunday anyway. Sinéad and I enjoyed a nice breakfast at our place (I had a great bowl of porridge with fruit and homemade peanut butter), and I learned all about the GAA (the Gaelic Athletic Association) as County Kerry had won the Irish football championship this year. The woman who ran the B&B had such pride in their county, and it was wonderful to hear how the traditional Irish sports persisted as a way to differentiate Irish culture from English. I regrettably didn’t know about Irish football or hurling before my trip, and now I’d love to see a match!

After breakfast, Sinéad and I walked along the marina, hoping to find the Blasket Islands experience our host had raved about. unfortunately, it wasn’t a museum like we hoped, but a boat tour taking you to the Blasket Islands (honestly, it was really hard to tell from the way she explained it). Since the weather was iffy and I didn’t want to press my luck with a third boating experience, we decided to skip the tour and wander through some craft stores instead.

I had told Sinéad early on that if we found anything with the text of the Irish Blessing (“May the road rise up to meet you”), I was going to get it because the text was a formative part of my high school choral experience. She had thought I’d be able to find a lot of prints with the text, but I kept coming up short in gift shops. So, when I found a coaster with the text, I snapped it up. A coaster can be a wall hanging if you believe enough.

Dingle Marina

We continued our walk around Dingle, wandering through a lovely garden, the church, and some artist galleries before lunch. In one of the galleries, we even got to chat with the artist about her paintings of the sea. Honestly, after our drive yesterday, I understood her inspiration.

After finishing our shopping tour of Dingle, Sinéad and I went for lunch at the one place that had been recommended to us over and over again—The Fish Box. Dingle is a seaside down, so it is know for its fish. And, I love fish, so I got their namesake “fish box”, a plate of fried calamari, cod, prawns, and chips. Sinéad was a good sport and got whatever vegetarian options that were on the menu. As we had our lunch, Sinéad overheard one of the women at the table next to us (part of a lovely family who gave us suggestions on what to order) say that she was moving to California. Nosy person that I am, I asked where in California . Turns out, she’s moving to LA— right near me! She is a writer and doesn’t know many folks in LA, so we exchanged information.

My friend Allison says that anywhere I go, I run into someone I know. This isn’t quite the same, but the principle holds as I have a new friend I met somewhere I went. I’m excited to connect with her when I get back.

Since we had a busy few days of travel, Sinéad and I took the rest of the afternoon to rest before heading to the marina for dinner. Our new B&B host (poor planning on my part meant we had to change locations) told us that the marina was where everyone would be in the early evening. While I can’t imagine it was as hopping as it would be on a sunny day, the rain continued to hold off enough for us to enjoy a lovely view of the harbor as we had our meal. It was our last night in Dingle, so I doubled down on seafood, ordering muscles in a lemon cream sauce with a side of fries (very Belgian of me). Instead of my typical beer, however, I decided to try the locally made Dingle Gin (we had planned to go to the distillery but couldn’t quite tell if it was open or not). Longtime players will know that I do enjoy a gin drink, and I have to say, Dingle Gin was one of the nicest versions I had.

After our dinner we decided to retrace some of our pub crawl steps and start with our favorite spot from the previous night. Unfortunately, absent of the stag parties, Dick Mack’s was kind of dead…save for the rowdy (and obnoxious) group of Americans playing the very out of tune piano. When we walked into the pub, they were playing America the Beautiful (time and place, man), and it just devolved from there as the guy on the keys proceeded to get the “crowd” going by asking if we had any people of [insert ethnicity here] in the room. I did appreciate the Jewish inclusion in that representation (he played the hora), it did seem like he was going through his song book of all of the songs Americans think would be played in an Irish bar. Spoiler alert. None of what he played I had heard anywhere else in Ireland.

Deciding to save our ears from the out of tune piano and singing, we went back to Foxy Johns where another American was holding court over the music. Though this one appeared to be hired by the bar and was actually quite good as he covered Ed Sheehan and other modern crooners. Once again, though, we made a quick exit when he said he was going to play “a song he wrote for 9/11”. Not really the vibe we were going for.

At that point, we were going to make our way to another pub down the road when we heard the strains of Wild Rover (what has become my pub calling card) coming from a tiny pub across the street. We walked in (or tried to) and found a banjo player sitting at the door and another guy leading the pub in song. Jackpot.

Wild Rover is one of the two Irish pub songs I know, and we joined in. As soon as the song was done, one of the women turned to Sinéad and said “you look like a singer”…which she is, and before you know it, Sinéad was coaxed into singing for the pub. Sinéad sang several songs beautifully, and as she is a classically trained soprano, several of our new friends exclaimed “what a voice” throughout her performances. Another fellow bought us drinks to keep us there singing with them, and I was even convinced to sing. Not being a native Irish person, my knowledge of Irish folk songs is limited (and I had to carefully sort out the Irish versus the English ones in my head), so when the banjo player told me to sing next, I went with the old classic…Danny Boy. Though, later, a woman did a tribute to the Irish-born Van Morrison and very drunkenly sang a creative rendition of Moondance. If only I had known that was an option…

I hadn’t performed for people in so long, I didn’t realize how nervous I would be, even with a glass of whiskey. But the pub soon joined in, and I felt right at home. I really do miss singing and performing, and I am grateful that this trip reminded me of that.

It was pretty clear that the crowd wanted us to stay and sing all night, but we had places to go! So, we snuck out the back and made our way to the Dingle Pub. The Dingle Pub was the place to be on a Sunday night, and when we got there a 60th birthday party was up and dancing right by the band as they played the classic Irish hit “Take Me Home, Country Roads. All joking aside, they were fantastic. They played everything from current pop hits to older dance tunes (think your classic wedding playlist), which was perfect to get people up and dancing. We ordered our drinks, and we hopped on the dance floor just in time for. Kenny Rogers/ Simon and Garfunkel medley. Not a combo I’d heard together before, but it really worked.

The Dingle Pub

Though it was a Sunday night, more people kept showing up, and soon some of the folks we saw at Foxy John’s must have gotten tired of original music that could be found on Spotify and joined our party at the Dingle. Soon, everyone was dancing together—I got pulled in for a dance with a gent at one point and in another song I was part of a chain with our arms around each other. Everyone was just enjoying the craic together, it didn’t matter if we knew each other before or not.

In a previous post, I mentioned that Garth Brooks was a big thing in Ireland, and he happened to be playing in Dublin that weekend. Well, lest the patrons of the Dingle Pub be left out of the fun, Garth Brooks was the hottest request of the night, as the band was asked to play “Friends in Low Places” at least 6 times. Since they had played it earlier in the evening, the guitar player kept turning down the request. But at the end of the night, we wore him down, and Friends in Low places brought down the bar. This has always been one of my favorite songs to sing back up for in karaoke, but I honestly don’t think anything will top swaying with a bunch of folks from County Kerry singing about slipping down to the oasis. I may have just met them, but I guess I now have friends in Dingle, as well.

We stayed till the end of the band’s set and thought about heading to one more spot. The place we wanted to go was closing just as we got there, so we took it as a sign and headed back to the Dingle Pub for one more round (ending at our favorite place) before calling it a night.

I had been told that Saturday night was going to be the best night in Dingle, but there was something special about that Sunday evening. As we were headed to Dublin the next day and would be spending most of the day in the car, this celebration was the perfect way to wrap up my western Ireland adventure.

Highs of Doolin and Dingle: The Cliffs, Conor’s Pass, Slea Head Drive, and all the craic

Lows of Doolin and Dingle: Drunk people invading our personal space

Biggest Surprises: Singing an Irish tune by myself in an Irish pub

Galway, Connemara, and Inishmore: Here Comes the Sun

On Wednesday morning, I woke up very early in Dublin to catch a bus west to Galway. As my luck would have it, I couldn’t appropriately do math at 6:00 AM, and it was tighter getting to the bus station than I hoped. Thank goodness for my reassuring Free Now (Ireland Uber) driver who made sure I got there with time to spare.

Because the bus was so early, I slept for the majority of the 2.5 hour bus to Galway—but I did wake up just in time to catch the sun casting a bright golden haze over a beautiful meadow. I arrived in Galway and found that my hostel was conveniently located right next to the bus station. This proximity made my morning a million times easier, as I had time to drop off my luggage, get coffee, and walk across town for my 10 AM tour.

I booked a tour with one of the many tour companies in Galway to go to Connemara—a region of County Galway and County Mayo known for its natural beauty. It had been a drizzly morning, so I wasn’t holding out much hope for the weather—especially when our driver said the fated “it hasn’t rained like this in weeks.” Cool.

But, the weather gods were on my side once again because the clouds parted when we pulled out of Galway. What luck!

Since I was traveling by myself, I shared a bus seat with a woman who was traveling with her two friends. After a quiet first 10 minutes, I asked her where she was from, and Anne—a pensioner from Dublin—responded…and then never stopped talking. I learned all about her current trip (her first time to Connemara!), and her other travels. She had been to the US a lot, including a van trip that included stops in NYC, Graceland, Dollywood, and Disney World. Honestly, a pretty good sampling of US culture.

We spent ages talking about where we wanted to travel (Dubai topped her list) and concerts we had seen or wanted to see. She told me I’m going to love seeing Elton John in November and shared how excited she was to see Garth Brooks on Saturday. I know, I was surprised, too.

Our tour took us through the rural areas of County Mayo, where our driver explained that farms were divided by thick limestone walls that had been there for centuries. And, completing my fantasy bingo card for the Irish countryside, we did have to stop many times for tractors, cows, and sheep crossing the road. The sheep get to roam about freely, so farmers mark which ones are theirs with blue or red dye in different patterns. I’m pretty sure I would lose most of my sheep, but I think I know some people who would fare decently (Anna, this seems like your domain).

Sheep in Connemara

After driving for quite a bit, we stopped in Cong—a small village in County Mayo. Cong’s biggest claim to fame is that it was the site the John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara classic “The Quiet Man” was filmed. I was unfamiliar with the movie, but boy oh boy, let me tell you what a hit it was with the women I sat with. The town has many sites commemorating the movie, including a museum in the house featured in the movie and a statue of John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in the center square. In fact, that statue had a line for photographs from the time we stopped to the time we left an hour later.

As it is nestled in the hills of Connemara, Cong does seem like the perfect setting for a movie. I chose to forgo picture with The Duke and spent my time exploring instead. Cong has a number of lovely craft stores featuring knit items, candles, paintings, and other homemade goods from the region. I didn’t pick up a craft, but I did get myself a “worry stone” at the suggestion of one of my friends back home. A “worry stone” is an Irish trinket with an indent the size of a thumb in the middle. As stories go, you are meant to rub the stone when you’re worried, and your worries transfer to the stone. Sold.

After the stores, I took a wander across the river to the grounds of the Ashmore Castle—where you can stay for a cool $1,500 and hobnob with the likes of US and French presidents, Madonna, and The Kardashians. Rory McElroy, the golfer, even got married there!

Ashmore Estate in Cong

While I didn’t go all the way to the castle, the grounds were enchanting and just what I would imagine for a posh wedding. After wandering around for an hour, I picked up a scone for a mid morning snack (breakfast was far too early). Irish scones are so much better than American ones.

We got back on the bus and continued our journey through the beautiful mountains of Connemara. On our way, our driver regaled us with tales from Connemara history, including the terrible murder of a man and his family by the local people of the village of Finney because the man had been allegedly stealing sheep. One of the men convicted had maintained his innocence throughout, and though he was executed in the 1800s, he received a full pardon in 2017.

This area was also hit very hard in the Potato Famine from 1840-1845. Many farmers had successfully grown potato crops in this area because you can grow a lot with a little land (and many Irish people only had square plots as opposed to the feudal English estates in the area). So, when the famine hit, the population of Ireland went from 6 million to 2 million as people either left the country or died. I knew a little bit about the famine, but I didn’t realize the quire how massive the toll. As we drove through Connemara, our bus driver pointed out the scars in the land where potatoes used to grow (though, I couldn’t really tell the difference between those and carvings from streams).

Potato grooves on a hillside

On a slightly happier note, the Connemara region is where St. Patrick stayed when he came to Ireland. The area was hidden enough in the mountains that they could practice mass and not be found out by the English when Cromwell’s government occupied Ireland. Our driver said that many people still make a pilgrimage to this area to celebrate the arrival of the Patron Saint of Ireland (though maybe not on the day we all know).

Connemara is home to many natural wonders including the Killary Fjord, the longest fjord in the country, as it starts in County Mayo and runs 16 miles to the Atlantic (don’t ask me what that is in kilometers, he gave me miles I ran with them). The water of the fjord was crystal clear—and the sun really came out right as we got there, so it’s reflection sparkled on the lightly rippling water. If there is anything more peaceful than a secluded mountain fjord with the sun shining on it, I don’t know it.

Killary Fjord

After stopping briefly at the fjord, we continued to our final stop, Kylemore Abbey and Gardens. Now, I had seen pictures of the Abbey briefly when booking my tour, but nothing did justice to the breathtaking beauty of the statuesque light grey abbey juxtaposed against the backdrop of Kelly and forest green trees. When we rounded the corner and got our first glimpse, I audibly gasped—it’s the site of fairytales.

Kylemore Abbey

The Abbey still functions as a Benedictine Abbey, but it didn’t always start that way. It was built by a wealthy Irish doctor turned textile manufacturer for his wife when they moved from England back to their homeland of Ireland. They just so happened to honeymoon to the secluded lake, and they liked it so much, they decided to stay. Quite honestly, I don’t blame them.

The estate grounds are huge, and they include a field that’s home to 3 Connemara ponies a forest—with trees imported to create a space to hunt—and a garden that is perfectly manicured. At one point, the garden had 21 greenhouses that grew such exotic fruits as bananas and citrus! It may not seem that exciting today, but for 1800s Ireland, a lemon was a big deal (though, I still find freshly grown lemons a big deal).

Kylemore Garden

I explored the gardens before going to the Abbey, taking my time among the trees and flowers. Anyone who knows me well knows that I love taking pictures of flowers. Going on a walk with me in the spring is impossible. So I loved strolling through the curated lawns, despite the swarms of gnats that accompanied my walk.

After the garden, I went to the Abbey just itself and made it in time for the history talk. as such, o rushed through some of the rooms to hear more about the estate. As mentioned before, the estate was built by a wealthy Irishman, Mitchell Henry, as a home for him and his wife. When his wife died, he built a gothic church on the grounds as her mausoleum. That’s true love.

The estate changed hands a few more times before becoming a Benedictine Abbey, where it operated as a school until very recently (apparently Madonna’s daughter almost went here!).

The talk was very great, but it was longer than I expected so I didn’t have as much time to explore the Victorian rooms of the Abbey. While it would have been nice to read the placards about daily life, if you’re playing along, Victorian art and architecture isn’t my favorite, so the history talk was probably more my speed.

After the talk, it started to rain a bit more, so explored the shops and had lunch (a warming bowl of potato dill soup). The nuns make chocolate at the Abbey, so it was practically required that I bought some fudge. It was entirely worth it.

As the Abbey was our last stop, we got back into the bus for the ride back to Galway. Once again, the scenery was beautiful, and it appeared as though we were headed back just in time. Clouds of mist rolled over the hills behind us, signifying a stormy night ahead—I hoped it wouldn’t follow us all the way to Galway!

Our driver gave us a small tour of the city as he dropped off passengers, taking us by the beautiful beach area and past several golf courses (I was in the wrong side of the bus to get a picture, Gary and Jerry). We got back to the city center, and I bid my new friends farewell and they wished me a great life. That always seems like a weird way to say goodbye, but it just goes to show how fleeting this interactions are. Despite that, Anne and her friends were definitely a crucial part of my trip, and I will do my best to uphold their wishes.

I got back to my hostel to freshen up a bit before heading out to dinner. I hadn’t really planned what I wanted, but my bus mates were talking about finding a “chip shop” for some fish and chips (Anne made sure I knew to go to a takeaway place for fish and chips as it’s far better than in pubs). Since I hadn’t had proper fish and chips yet, dinner was sorted. I went to a place called McDonaghs—the place to go for fish and chips in Galway. I got my takeaway box of fried cod with chips (a mountain of chips), tartar sauce, and mushy peas and took it to the central square to eat (it was not raining and quite a lovely evening).

People watching in a central square is fascinating. Eyre square is a central bus stop in Galway, and you have to cross it to get from most of the hotels to the shopping area. As I ate dinner, I watched groups of students who were in their first week of university and headed out to a pub, tourists looking for a place to eat, or locals headed for a bit of craic (Irish for good fun).

When I finished my fish and chips (or a quarter of the chips…I swear they were bottomless…and oddly reminiscent of Red Robin fries), I went to go find a bit of craic myself.

Galway city is known for its local music scene as many bars host nightly music sessions, be it traditional or more modern. I wanted to find a place that played more traditional Irish music, and I just so happened to find a pub called Tig Coili that said it was “the home of trad music in Galway.” It ended up being a good choice as the bar was packed with locals and tourists alike. I ordered my Guinness and found a spot in the corner to tuck into and listen to the music. The music was electric and filled the pub with a lively air. You couldn’t help but tap your toes.

A local pub in Galway

As I sat and listened, I met a very attractive local guy named Shane who was there to watch the game and enjoy the music as well. We quickly hit it off, talking about sports alliances, Wes Anderson movies, and Only Murders in the Building (that twist!). It just so happened that we had the same favorite Wes Anderson movie and were equally disappointed by his most recent endeavor. When the music ended at the pub, we were enjoying our conversation so much that Shane took me to another place, equally known for its craic (pronounced crack, if you’ve been wondering).

This place was popular with a younger crowd, and when we arrived, the piano player was playing the popular Irish traditional song, “Piano Man” by the well known Irishman, Billy Joel (I kid, I kid). We chatted for hours—about traveling, history, books, and politics (on which Shane and I had very similar opinions). Before I knew it, it was 1 AM, and I had a ferry booked for the next day. So, Shane walked me back to my hostel, and we said farewell. We did exchange instagrams, so maybe our paths will cross again!

The next day, I got up late and made my way to the ferry departure point for a trip to the Aran Islands. The Aran Islands are made up of three islands, and I went to the biggest one, Inis Mór.

I was a bit apprehensive about the ferry because of my track record for seasickness on choppy waters (see: Adelphians tour of 2012, Victoria — Seattle Ferry for reference). Fortunately, the swells were calm and I successfully managed a seafaring vessel without nausea bands. Huzzah!

When we got to the island, we were greeted by a row of mini bus drivers are waiting to collect tourists to drive them around the island. I arbitrarily chose a driver, and we were off to our first stop.

One of the biggest attractions on Inis Mór is Dún Aonghasa, an ancient fort thought to date from the Bronze or Iron Ages. Local folklore states that this fort was built as a dividing line on the island between two saints, but it also would have been in a prime place for defense as it sits right on the high cliffs of the island coastline.

The walk from the village to the top of the fort takes about 20 minutes, and it is a fairly rocky hill. Luckily, I was well prepared with my trusty riding boots and ever careful tripoding climbing technique if I needed it. But the view at the top was worth every steep step.

View from the Fort

The fort was impressive, but it was really the view of the sea that had my heart because of its sheer tranquility. Sitting on a rock, watching the sun cast down on the rippling water, feeling the breeze against my face unlocked a sense of serenity I only feel when I’m traveling. All of my worries about the world were swept away, and for a few minutes time stood still. I could have sat there and journaled all afternoon.

Another view from the fort

Unfortunately, I did not have that time and had to get back to the village for a quick lunch before our tour continued. I had time for a quick takeaway chicken salad sandwich and did a turn through one of the craft stores featuring knit items emblematic or the Aran Islands. Whenever I am at a knitting store, I feel like I should pick up knitting despite the fact that every time I try I miscount stitches and give up. I’ll stick to my cross-stitching grid.

We continued our tour of the island, driving around the 14 small villages that are home to 800 people. That population is dwindling as many young families leave the island for the bigger mainland areas. While the island has all the amenities it needs—a grocery store, post office, pubs, a school, a doctor, life on the island is quiet. In fact, many people who own homes on the island rent them out as holiday houses. To build a house on the island, you have to be a native of the Aran Islands, but you could buy a house that’s already built. That said, they cost a pretty penny and need quite a bit of upkeep, so the investment may not be worth it.

Holiday houses in Inis Mór

Our guide was a native of Inis Mór, and was very proud of his island. In fact he must have told us 6 or 7 times that the movie The Banshees of Inisheer, staring Colin Farrel, was filmed there last year. Apparently it did quite well at Venice, so check it out. We stopped a few times around the island, exploring a cemetery and a village center. At one of the gift shops, there was a print of “Lake Isle of Inisfree by W.B. Yeats. It’s both one of my favorite poems, and one of my favorite choral pieces I’ve sang and directed, so it was the perfect cou wine to sum up my lovely trip.

On the Ferry back, we did a cruise along the Cliffs of Moher. While it looked like it could start to rain, it held off for the duration of our journey. I had a tour booked to walk the Cliffs the following day, but seeing the 200-meter tall Cliffs from the water was nothing short of breathtaking. They towered over our ferry, and I marveled at the sheer magnificence of nature. I did get a thrill out of seeing the “Cliffs of Insanity” and the site of Harry and Dumbledore’s horcrux adventure up close and personal. I’m excited to see them from another vantage point tomorrow!

Cliffs if Moher

I fell asleep on the rest of the relaxing boat ride (and still didn’t get sick!), and woke up just in time to get to Galway for the rain to come. After a quick stop at my hostel, I went back out in the rain for dinner, conveniently leaving my hostel just in time for the hardest downpour of the day. Luckily, the windy streets of Galway had many alcoves to tuck into, and it takes about 15 minutes to walk the entire town. So when the rain let up, I quickly scurried to John Keogh’s, a highly recommended and awarded traditional gastropub in town.

The vibe of the pub was exactly what I pictured. While there was no singing along with a piano player here—or yards of beer—the wood-paneled walls and tucked away snugs (booths) took me back to my days at The Golden Bee (iykyk). I sat at the bar, where the barkeep asked if I was looking for a bit of craic, to which I responded “I hope so” (knowing now what it is). He suggested I try a local gin with the weekly tonic for a lovely G&T, and I had small plates of brisket croquettes and a seafood chowder for dinner. Unlike most chowders I had in the US, this was mostly haddock, salmon, and cod instead of shellfish. Well, mostly those fish and butter. Let me tell you, seafood chowder is exactly what is needed after getting caught in the cold Irish rain.

After dinner, I rambled back through the town to find some music for the evening, but I got waylaid by the words “award winning gin bar.” The bar was fairly empty when I got there, so the bar tender excitedly gave me a rundown of the flavor profiles of the featured Irish gin. I ended up with one that had a lovely berry flavor, and it paired nicely with the tonic and fresh raspberry garnish.

These are all gin!

As I sat there and sipped my gin, a group of rowdy young lads (male) came in, speaking loudly of their studies and their upcoming trip to the Aran Islands for a political festival. They discussed whether they were communist or socialist, deciding they agree more with communism, and—once they got their whiskey—did a “cheers to the revolution!”. I’m not sure if I someone how ended up in the beginning of Act I or Hamilton or the end of Act I (or beginning of Act II) of Les Mis, but I half expected the bar to start moving on a turntable while a chorus marched and a big flag waved.

After my brief sojourn to a 18th and 19th century revolutionary pub, I went back to the pub I was at the night before with lively music. While Wednesday’s music was good, Thursday’s was exceptional. The band barely stopped playing, and the bar was alive with revelry. At one point, the band stopped playing for a girl to come in and sing an Irish tune. Though the bar had chatter while the band played, it went silent as she sang—and I’m so glad it did. She had a hauntingly beautiful voice as she sang a traditional Celtic tune with the requisite lilt. As a singer, I found this absolutely mesmerizing and wanted to hear so much more. It was such a nice testament to how the oral tradition of music and storytelling is alive and well in Ireland.

Vocal music in a Galway

While sipping my Bulmer’s (what Magner’s is called in Ireland), I met a very attractive man named Carl, a bus driver and tour guide on a stop over in Galway. Carl hails from Dublin, but makes the rounds of the country for his day job. Again, we quickly began talking about travel—places we love and places we have yet to go to (his pandemic canceled trip was to Vietnam)—and we shared stories of some of our favorite adventures. Though he’s training to be a pilot, Carl stated leading tours in the pandemic. He explained it’s a great way to meet people from all over the world and get to educate them on Irish history—especially when that history isn’t taught in nearby countries that had a major impact on its trajectory.

As someone who knew a little Irish history before going on this adventure, the knowledge of my tour guides has been instrumental in my appreciation of the country. Yes, it is beautiful, but having a deeper understanding of the story makes it that much better.

After about 2 hours, Carl and I both had to leave to prepare for our respective morning tours. I didn’t get his information, but I am happy that he popped into my life for a minute—in much the same way as the women I met in Connemara.

Side note: I have now spent 3 nights in a row confidently talking to attractive men. I am bringing that confif eve back to LA…and am hoping the men up their game to deserve it.

Galway and it’s surrounding areas has been an absolute delight. Though I was on my own, it was so easy to meet people and start a conversation. I have loved feeling right at home in this beautiful city. Today, I leave Galway to head south to Doolin. But more on that next time!

Highs of Galway: Connemara and the beautiful Kylemore Abbey (and my friends), meeting and talking to the people in pubs, and a bit of craic.

Lows of Galway: Getting caught in a downpour and forgetting my rain coat.

Biggest Surprises of Galway: not getting sick on the ferry and spending hours talking to cute men 😊.