Hit the Road, Jack

If I learned one thing from Honors Bio sophomore year, it was probably something to do with genetics, considering we spent at least two weeks going over possible DNA structures in our 400 page textbook designed to give students scoliosis. If, for example, parent 1 has two dominant chromosomes, denoted by XX, of some trait, its child will have that characteristic, regardless of whether or not parent 2 has that dominant chromosome or not, because it will inherit one half of that dominant chromosome that cancels out the recessive one. In other words, the child will always get at least one “big” X, in this case from parent 1. Let us explore the possibilities:

Scenario 1:
Known: parent 1: XX
Variable: Parent 2: xx
àChild: Xx

Scenario 2:
Known: Parent 1: XX
Variable: Parent 2: Xx
àChild: either a) XX or b) Xx

Scenario 3:
Known: Parent 1: XX
Variable: Parent 2: XX
àChild: XX

After wrapping our brains around capital and lowercase letters and their probable outcome if arranged in every pair possible, we applied the big X little x game to real genetic traits. If, for example, you have brown hair, this is a dominant trait. You have received a big X from at least one parent. If you are tall, you have received yet another dominant gene from at least one parent. If you can roll your tongue in a “U” shape, then at least one of your parents can, as well.

There is, however, one trait that I never shared (in addition to the lack of tongue-rolling capabilities) with everyone else in Mr. Elkavitch’s second-block class. It’s called the Hitchhiker’s Thumb—which, quite logically, is a dominant trait. Instead of a Hitchhiker’s Thumb, where the top part of the thumb sort of curls back when the hand is in a “thumb’s up” gesture, I have inherited a strait thumb with absolutely no sign of a curve. I done got the recessive gene.

But, fret not! There is still hope: this week, I learned that there is no discrimination between those with straight and curved thumbs when one wishes to (track 1) hitch a ride through Southern France…even when not wearing gloves.

This past Monday, Andy, who I met in Morocco a few weeks back through the dear Nathan Williams, asked me if I was in the mood for doing something wild, i.e. hitchhiking to Barcelona and, en route, see some of the beautiful cities located in Southern France. And, after triumphantly handing in four 12-page papers and completing my courses this week, thankyouverymuch, I readily complied. So, after buying a train ticket to Geneva to meet Andy, who studies in France, and a plane ticket home from Barcelona, I told Mama Q of my plans, minus a few minor details such as means of transportation, and struck out with a backpack, sleeping bag, and plenty of clean underwear.

It was our initial intention to CouchSurf our way through France to Barcelona, which, for those of you who don’t know, is an online project for people who travel and look into staying with actual residents of the city in question rather than book hostels or hotel rooms. Unfortunately our travelling was a little bit too spontaneous to ever really succeed in that regard—when we did get an affirmative answer, we never got to the city on time. There just ain’t no timetables on the road. We did, however, get to stay with some complete strangers and some incomplete acquaintances of Andy’s.

The first night we headed out of Geneva at 6:20PM and hitched a ride to the nearest service station across the border. It was there where we were offered actual mugs of vodka by several truck drivers, none of whom spoke English, who had pulled in for the night. After sharing a few laughs at the awkward language barrier and being kissed on the cheek by the provider of said vodka, Andy and I made our way down the road, where we eventually got a ride with a truck driver from the Czech Republic to another service station. This station closed at midnight, leaving Andy and I two hours to get a ride towards Lyon, our intended destination. Since the only person not headed north who was both willing and able to take us was going into Macon, Andy and I piled in the car and found ourselves at a truck stop 20 kilometers outside of said city. Luckily Andy knew of a few American girls living there, and, after many long hours at the station, where pin ball machines lined the walls and everything from truck horns to Confederate flags were sold, Andy and I found ourselves in the center of town with a roof and running water (lesson number 1: never underestimate walls and indoor plumbing).

The next morning Andy and I struck out to make our way south, with the intended destination of either Valence or Avignon. An old couple headed in that direction pulled over and offered us a lift all the way to Marseille, a city located right on the Mediterranean coast. And, since spontaneity was a major theme of the entire trip, we decided to skip Avignon and drive the three hours down through the mountains to Marseille. After being warned of the dangers of the city, Andy and I decided to find a youth hostel, where, the next morning, we were informed of France’s major social issues (including religion of any kind and immigrants from Northern Africa [apparently 60% of France’s population isn’t right in the head because they are either a.) religious or b.) foreigners]) by our host, the only fan of Sarkozy and cynic of Obama we encountered on the entire trip. After failing to change the direction of the conversation, we left the hostel and shared a picnic of baguette and tabouille for breakfast (to be repeated time and again throughout the week), and spent the day in Marseille.

Later in the evening, we started hitching again in the direction of Avignon. After getting stuck on the side of the road somewhere between Marseille and Aix-en-Provence, we looked for the North Star of globalized culture, namely big, golden McDonald’s (aka Mickey D’s or “MacDo”) arches that illuminate the night sky. If it hadn’t been closed for staff training and we hadn’t been forced to eat at chez Colonel himself, I would have made every Pulp Fiction fan proud and ordered a royal with cheese.

But I digress.

We hung around the parking lot and ended up hitching a ride to, ironically enough, Aix-en-Provence. We arrived probably 20 minutes later, and were dropped off directly in the center of town with a massive fountain lit up in the center of a roundabout (which are very common in Europe, come to find out). While contemplating where we were, and whether or not we should find a place to camp for the night or continue on to find Avignon (where we had a couch waiting for us), Andy heard the sound of our salvation.

Hark!

An American voice, presumably on a cell phone, echoed dramatically through the streets of Aix.

We called out after her—“English!” “American!” “Obama!”—but to no avail. All hope was (almost) lost, when a Frenchman, also randomly enough on the streets of Aix at midnight, noticed our antics and tapped her on the shoulder. He motioned over to us. It wasn’t two seconds after she ended her phone call that Andy and I started to explain that we were searching for the road to Avignon, and needed directions on how to find the Autoroute. Her answer blew us away.

Although she did not, in fact, know what direction one took to get out of Aix heading towards Avignon, she was quite sorry…we were, however, more than welcome to come and hang out with her friends tonight, and crash on her futon until tomorrow morning.

Andy and I didn’t even have to make eye contact (for) to know that our answer was in the affirmative. Our dream and overall mission to meet complete strangers on this epic journey south was becoming a reality.

Maggie, our hostess for the night, comes from Napa Valley and is studying for the year in Aix-en-Provence. She is all too stereotypically dating a Frenchman named Pierre, and studies Art and French at Denver University. We are now Facebook friends.

And, as Forrest Gump would say, I guess we ain’t strangers anymore.

After picking up Maggie’s friend Marc from the bus station, who was visiting from Paris, Andy and I came back to Maggie’s apartment and chatted for about an hour before, as Mama Q would say, hitting the high trail. The next morning we shared croissants and pain au chocolat before getting on the road again for Avignon.

And, this time, we were successful in reaching our intended destination.

Instead of taking the major highway to Avignon, Andy and I took the more scenic route, which, as the band Berlin and later Jessica Simpson would say in romantic ballad form, was enough to take your breath away. I felt like I was back in Vermont, minus the fact that I was speaking French with a Moroccan truck driver with speed limits marked in kilometers per hour along the route. If I hadn’t realized it before I knew it then: hitchhiking is the coolest way to travel. Ever.

In Avignon we shared another baguette and tabouille picnic outside of the Papal Palace, where we fended off the pigeons and managed to have a conversation with three local ten-year old kids, who had gregariously approached us wondering where we came from and couldn’t, like most people we encountered, wrap their heads around the fact that we were not a couple on honeymoon. Oh the silly, romantic French.

After hitching out of Avignon with two DJs that work raves for a living, Andy and I arrived in Nimes in dire need of a toilet (well, one of us, anyway). We hit up the train station, and immediately turned around after realizing we had to pay 30 cents to go on a so-called call of nature in a somewhat civilized fashion (overrated? Perhaps). As we headed out of the train station, Andy bumped into a girl he had met New Year’s Eve in the mountains of France (track 2: “It’s a small world”), who, come to find out, lived in Montpellier (our destination for the night). She invited us to stay with her, and yet again we readily accepted, parted ways and saw some of Nimes before again striking out for the Autoroute. Before we knew it, we were in Montpellier.

Twelve hours and one new Facebook friend later, we struck out for Barcelona.

Two hitches towards Figueres, one lift backtracking to a roundabout on the Autoroute, another to a station outside Barcelona (with a discussion centered on the Catalan independentism, no less) and another to a bus that cost less than two Euros each to arrive in the center of the city, Andy and I found ourselves in the Placa de Catalunya victorious as Cesc Fabregas and giddy as annoying English speaking tourists that have arrived in a city not knowing any (appropriate) phrases in the native language. We had conquered the South of France and stormed through the border of Spain, all without using the blue pop up tent at our disposal. Success? I think so.

Taking a break at the Olympic Stadium in Barcelona--those packs were heavy.
Some friends we made at a bar in Barcelona--Martin and Simon. We were told time and time again how fabulous we were, and how we should marry. Friendly chaps.

Andy and I at Güell Park

Ice cream in February--at the Sagrada Familia

Victory photo outside the Sagrada Familia!

Tapas...good eats.

Desperation? Possibly. I had to make up for the lack of approriate genetics.

Audrey, our hostess in Montpellier

For the record, we're still in the hitchhiking zone. Technically.

Our Arabic pizza-guy friend, who taught us various Arabic phrases and, upon seeing the outcome of this photo, pointed at each person, saying, respectively, "White, Obama, White." We exchanged e-mail addresses.

I was a Matador in a former life.

In Aix, with Maggie, Marc, and Sarah

Marseille! We rented bikes. ET style.

Geneva

We also learned some Catalan: Siusplau = Please. A good word to know.

The madness begins.

Macon

This must have been why it was so hard to get a car going towards Lyon the first night. Who'da thunk it.

One of many Arc de Triomphes that we saw along the way--this time in Marseille.

Notre Dame de la Garde overlooking the city

Cathédrale de la Major

In Le Panier, or Old Town of Marseille

Marseille from the basilica

The basilica--Notre Dame de la Garde

Our first impression of Aix-en-Provence

A worker at the grocery store that helped us with our Avignon-sign.

Statues are too boring to imitate...we go for the fountains.

Andy posing with Cezanne. He totally helped us with our luck.

A water wheel on la Rue des Teinturiers in Avignon

Back of the Papal Palace

Avignon used to be the seat of the Catholic church during part of the 14th century instead of Rome. Hence, Palais des Papes-- Papal Palace.

Le Pont d'Avignon

There were carousels in literally every town we visited--except Barcelona. This one is in Nimes, French city #5.

In Nimes--apparently the figures at the feet of the goddess, who represents the town itself, symbolize both the four seasons and four major bodies of water in the area: the Eure spring, the Rhone, the Gardon, and the Fontaine of Nimes.

Palais de Justice

Les Arenes, an ampitheater in Nimes

His Zodiac sign is a Taurus...no, seriously.

Parc du Peyrou...I think. In Montpellier.

Porte du Peyrou--Arc #2

Palais du Justice

Ursulines, a former convent and later women's prison in Montpellier.

Irony? Yes.Catholic, or criminal?

Take 5--before we cross that border!

Dinner of champions--we couldn't find any tabouille.

Steffi and Wiebke with Andy on Thursday morning--they study with Andy in Grenoble and left Barcelona the morning after we arrived. Sad. But hey, they're German! :)

Placa Reial, where our youth hostel was located the second night in Barcelona. Our map says, and I quote: "one of hte favorite hang outs and meeting points of the backpacker/homeless scene." Apparently the two go hand in hand, which we later discovered while sleeping at the bus station Friday night.

Goodbye baguettes, hello tapas!

Sagrada Familia-- a masterpiece not yet finished, designed by Gaudi, who tragically died in a tram accident...according to an English couple who read a guide book aloud to us. But you never know with English people--dodgey characters, those Brits.

Still Sagrada Familia, but t'other side

Stay hydrated!

Casa Mila, another Gaudi

Güell Park

(more Gaudi)

We're not vandals...we just saw wet cement, and couldn't help ourselves.

Goal: come back to Barcelona one day, find this road sign, and feel nostalgic.

Olympic Stadium--Andy had to restrain me from running on the track.

The stadium was actually built for the 1936 Olympics, but didn't host that year due to the Spanish Civil War. Instead, the Olympics were held here in 1992. I was 4. It was the end of yet another Bush era. Victorious!

...still riding that hitchhiking high.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not the Castle de Montjuic. Rather, it is the National Palas. Quite impressive. One might think it to be a castle. But don't be fooled. Because it's not.

The man at work...photography in the wild.

Hygiene? Never heard the word.

Sagrada Familia from afar

Palau de la Musica--another Gaudi.

Arc #3, this time en Espanol: Arc de Triomf

Sangria!

Cheers, Prost, Santé...(insert Spanish equivalent here)

Friday night, or, rather, Saturday morning, Andy and I, after having failed to make reservations at a youth hostel, decided to get some shut-eye at the bus station where, at 6AM, I was to oh-so-traditionally travel via bus to the airport one hour away. We were only mildly successful in that regard. But sleep, just like scheduled transportation, we discovered, is something very overrated when travelling with a North Face (aka "Sport Bag") on your back. Time is a fickle thing.

Peace, love, and one nation divided by a common language,

Amanda