Chapter 64 – I’m on my way (uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, uh huh)

March 2, 2004 (continued)
My last stop on the rambla was at Dunkin’ Donuts – terrible that I eat “American” when I go to other countries…and if only it had been a Tim Horton’s…

Since my phone battery had died hours earlier, I decided I’d better aim to be back at Coralie’s around the time she finished work (7:00) so I could plug in my phone, and hoped that she wasn’t worried at not having been able to reach me. It was already after 6:00, and the train back to Terrassa was over half an hour…plus, I wasn’t sure if I could find her place from the station. By some miracle, I did make it, and just a few minutes after 7:00. She had tried to call several times, but I apparently hadn’t worried her too much. We decided to make it an early night: dinner out, and asleep by midnight (after all, we were short on sleep, and between her work and my travel in the morning, we needed to be out the door before 8:00. Unfortunately, since Oliver didn’t get back until 3:00am, motivating them in the morning was tough…The plan: drop Coralie off at work at 8:00, then Oliver would drive me into Barcelona for my bus to the airport at 9:30.

The reality: By 9:30, we just barely found the general area where the bus should be, but couldn’t find it (or the stop). With me on the edge of my nerves (I had been ready to leave a half hour before we actually got out the door, after 8:00) and – imagine this – there’s a lot of traffic in Barcelona during rush hour on a weekday morning – shocking, I know. While Terrassa was apparently physically on the same side of the city as the bus stop, the highway actually wraps around the city, and we had to come in from the other side, and drive directly through the city, in a V shape…so basically travel about 4 or 5 times the actual distance…during rush hour…in Barcelona. I’m impressed we were actually there for 9:30 at all…but I was still without a bus. Oliver decided we’d be better making the hour drive out of the city and try to find the airport, hoping it wasn’t hard to find…ah, discount airlines…To add to the stress, Coralie’s speedometer doesn’t work (yeah, that’s one of those things that’s handy to have in operating condition…) so I had to resort to timing highway signs to keep my mind busy (much like I did in England last year). Unlike in England, however, we actually made it to the airport without a hitch a little after 10:30 (the bus was scheduled to arrive at 10:45, but didn’t show until 11:00). I checked in, and having beaten the bus, among the first few people. Even the flight left on time, and I was at the airport outside Frankfurt early!

Next issue: getting to the train station. Turns out, Frankfurt Hahn (where Ryan Air flies) is even farther out of the city than Baden Baden, or either of the ones from Barcelona (all of which I’ve seen in the past week). In fact, almost twice as far as each of the Barcelona airports, and about 3 times as far as Baden Baden. Two hours later, I found myself at the train station buying tickets for an even higher price (the discounts are only on round-trips booked more than 3 days in advance, which, of course, I had tried to do). My French discount card did get me about 20 euros off though, which I hadn’t thought it could, so the difference was less. And really, the important thing was that I was able to get a ticket at all! So, here I am, killing time at Chicago Meatpackers, another American restaurant…I couldn’t resist. I’ve been here 3 hours now (I think, but I don’t think they’ll want me to stay until my 11:37 train – it’s only 9:30 now) so I’d better finish my NY-style cheesecake and head back to the train station…

ps. random thought from during my flight, flying over the French Alps (after “making a left over the sea, over Barcelona, Marseille…” as the captain had put it at the beginning) was amazing. Better than on the way to Barcelona (because we didn’t fly directly over them then). If felt almost like you could reach out and run your fingers over them like a 3D map. Amazing.

pps. oops, it’s only 8:30. man – still 3 hours to kill???

Chapter 63 – The negotiator

March 2, 2004
Another month flown by! So Sunday, it took some time for us to get going (laundry in the machine combined with sheer laziness) and when we finally got moving, it was raining. We decided to go into town anyway, and try to find a movie in English. Fortunately, the one theatre I knew of (thanks to Andy and friends) showed only original-version movies (with Spanish subtitles of course) so all but 2 of the 20 movies were in English. We saw the one with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton (couldn’t tell you the title – it was in Spanish) which turned out to be pretty cute. We later met up with Oliver at the Hard Rock Café, but it was too busy, so we headed elsewhere to eat…later ending up at yet another karaoke bar.

Yesterday (Monday) was my touristy day. With Coralie working, I had the necessity (and opportunity) to check out Barcelona on my own. I started at Plaza Catalunya (where the train dropped me off…by sheer coincidence of course) which is the end point of the best known rambla. A rambla is basically a pedestrian street with one lane on each side for motor traffic. This particular one leads from Plaza Catalunya (a main transportation point) to the monument dedicated to Christopher Columbus, which is more or less at the water’s edge. After asking about the bus to the airport for Tuesday (today) at an information stand, where Coralie had told me that they spoke English, I found a tower for cable cars. Since I was at sort of the central point of the main cable car line, I got 2 round trips (one in each direction). The first brought me to the beach that extends from the Olympic Port (where I was on Friday…and Saturday…and Sunday nights for that matter). I decided that I should at least let my feet take a dip in the sea, and set up my camera for my first attempt at using the timer function. After a few tries I had one half-decent photo, a pair of very cold feet, and slightly wet jeans from one wave that was a fair bit larger than the others and somewhat unexpected. I got the sand off my feet doing my best to not get my socks wet, and put my socks and shoes back on. Honestly – socks have never seemed so warm and comfy. I walked to the end of the beach (further away from the port) and back, then cable carred it back, past the central tower, and basically into the side of a mountain. After walking further up the hill, past the Olympic diving pool, I found signs leading to “Castell”, which sounded pretty cool. When I finally got to the top of the hill, I was rather disappointed by the less-than-spectacular fort that held a military museum…which was closed. The view from the canons down to the sea was pretty cool, although marred by commercial ports and depots. I caught the cable car back to the central point, and slowly worked my way back up the rambla, stopping first at the wax museum where I got a stern warning for taking pictures (oops).

When I finished my tour of that, I started going into souvenir shops, just for interest’s sake, when I noticed the mini alcohol taps (picture to go on my website) that I had seen a couple of days before, but had decided against paying the 15 or 20 euros they were asking. I started comparing, when I noticed (and thus remembered having heard) that many things weren’t priced, or, if they were, were much more than the price they offered me (really? just for me? – if I could find a font called ‘dripping with sarcasm’, this would be one of the places I would use it…). The tap things (without the stand and shot glasses) ranged from about 25 to 40 euros (according to the price tags) and the ones with a stand and matching glasses even more. Now, I absolutely can’t stand negotiating, but this seemed like a nice low-risk environment way to practice. It was probably only the second or third place that offered my the thing for 10 euros, so it was then that I decided that if I could get it for under 10, I would buy it. The following store came down to 12, and made my favourite comment: upon telling them that someone else had said 10, he said “who, but the internet café?” (which was correct). “He was joking. He won’t sell for 10. He was joking.” After that, I never found anything below 12 (I guess that guy hadn’t been lying to make a sale when he told me that I wouldn’t find lower!), so I went back. Unfortunately, they didn’t have have the pattern I liked best, so I decided not the spend the money. Ah well, just another thing to try and find in a less kitchy touristy format, and one more interesting experience.

(to be continued)…

Chapter 62 – He’s cool, just ask him

February 29, 2004
Well, I made it to Terrassa, but apparently there were two trains, that leave and arrive from different stations, but run more or less parallel, and I took the *other* one. No problem: the stations are only a few minutes apart by car…thankfully we have cell phones! We went to McDonalds for some food, and then to a karaoke bar (they seem to be everywhere here!) because Coralie and her boyfriend, Oliver, both sing (Oliver professionally). I, on the other hand, can’t sing, and could barely keep my eyes open anyway.

I slept like a rock, and it was afternoon by the time we got moving into town. Weird talking about going to Barcelona as “going into town.” We went to Sacreda Familia (a huge cathedral that’s been under construction for 100 years, with another 100 years to go), after stopping in the centre of the city, where we ate at a New York Italian Restaurant, where audio Italian lessons for English speakers were playing in the bathrooms. Why not?

We did a fair bit of just walking around, ending near Plaza Catalunya where friends of Oliver were street dancing – it was very cool. We then ate (no, my life doesn’t revolve around food) at the Hard Rock Café, where Cristian (a friend of Oliver’s) joined us. The plan was then to pick up another friend who was supposed to sing with Oliver later on. Unfortunately, they couldn’t get in touch with him, so we stopped at Cristian’s so he could change while we waited in his car (having left Coralie’s downtown). Why he needed to change his clothes half an hour after coming out was beyond me. It became more clear on our next stop: when we stopped so he could change cars. I already had to suppress laughter when I saw the sort of baby blue beast, lowered for the cool factor. It got worse: we could barely get out of the garage, the car was lowered so much. At one point we seemed stuck on the slope, hoping the garage door wouldn’t close on the car. But man could we accelerate…for the 50 foot stretches between traffic circles and intersections. In the first car, we had asked about seat belts in the back seat, at which point Oliver had indicated the backs of the front seats. Riiiiiight. I didn’t bother to ask in the second (oh so much cooler) car, although the place where the seat belts had once come out were painted white (like the steering wheel and a few other details…you know, for contrast against the cool blue interior).

The next stop was the gas station, where he seemed completely incapable of maneuvering, and where it seemed even more (as it had the whole ride) that something was going to fall off the bottom of the car at any moment. A man coming out of the gas station indicated something under the rear-passenger side to confirm my amused concerns. We then went to the air pumps to fill the tires. I guess he didn’t want the car actually dragging on the ground any more, but why shouldn’t it??? I mean…isn’t that what cars are supposed to do???

I guess it became clear that Coralie and I were hardly melting in awe, and it was decided to go back and get her car before heading to the bar where Oliver and his friend were supposed to sing. It was on the highway that Cristian turned on the blue interior lights. They didn’t stay on long (I guess the giggling from the cheap seats was too much for his already bruised ego). We got back to Coralie’s car, and headed off in search of the bar (minus Cristian, who must have gone off to find girls that would be more impressed by his clothes and car…or perhaps just to cry – your guess is as good as mine). Anyway, we never did find the bar. We had almost found it (by the instructions we got from the 5 or so people we stopped to ask periodically, I figured out what we had done wrong, but Oliver was sick of making wrong turns, so we went to another karaoke bar for a couple of songs and headed home. It’s now 3:00pm, and Coralie and I will be heading into town shortly for some sightseeing.

Chapter 61 – A Canadian in Barcelona

February 27, 2004
Well, the train was on time, but the bus to the airport was late, which allowed me to meet a fellow passenger destined also for Barcelona. A German from Karslruhe (near Baden Baden) studying in Freiburg (near Mulhouse) with some solid American English (spent his junior year of high school in Pennsylvania). Andy has been a good help in the monstrosity of an airport (for those that won’t see the pictures, this is the smallest airport EVER). We checked in, passed the security point, and sat in the kids area to watch the stream of Disney clips playing on a TV set up for kids. Since it’s 12:30, it was time for a bite, so we went to get pretzels at the café stand. I got one, and he got 3, to bring to a friend in Barcelona. I now know that it is just Alsace: German pretzels are as good as I thought (way better than in Alsace). I went back for more, for the trip, and was proud that I asked for 3 pretzels all by myself (okay, so it’s not that hard; I learned to count to ten in German when I was little, and pretzel sounds almost exactly the same, just spelled with a ‘b’ instad of a ‘p’). Unfortunately, there was apparently a run on pretzels, and there were only two left. No problem: I understood “two” and he understand the “whatever” that my shoulder shrugging told him. Getting the impression that I understand German, he then asked me another question, so I assumed the position I developed in Switzerland a blank stare (with the added improvement of “nicht deutsch” (no German). I then got Andy to teach me “I don’t speak German” (Ich spreche kein deutsch.) and “I don’t understand” (Ich verstehe nicht deutsch.). Along with the “sprechen sie English” (do you speak English) that I already knew, I’m well on my way to language and travel ignorance…the slightly more polite way.

11:08pm
Wow. Just 7 hours later, and I don’t know where to begin. Our flight was a little delayed, but no big deal. Since Ryan Air has no assigned seats, Andy and I continued our voyage together. I took the window seat, and managed a couple of aerial photos, using the newly discovered (limited but existing) digital zoom that I didn’t know I had…I mean, I’ve only had the camera for over a year!

Despite being half an hour late, buses leaving for Barcelona weren’t much of a problem (I’m pretty sure ours was the only commercial flight for at least the next several hours). The first bus was full to bursting (or at least the luggage compartments were) but a second was waiting to take the place of the first when it left. We probably had a more comfortable ride anyway, since our bus wasn’t nearly so packed. Once we got moving, I turned my phone on to make sure it would work in Spain (crazy, I’m in Spain) and was surprised to have 3 messages on my answering machine. I figured anyone that would call (rather than send a text message) knew I was away. The message notice also gave me the number of the last person that called, so I checked through my address book – Coralie (the person I was meeting). I had figured on checking the messages when I got into Spain, but after about 20 minutes my curiosity overtook my cheapness, and I called my answering machine: 3 progressively more frustrated sounding messages from Coralie who, after a business trip to Paris, was still in Paris as of her last message (around 3:00 or 4:00). Having been at the airport since 6:00am for her 8:00am flight, she was less than impressed. Since I hadn’t expected to meet her (in Terrassa) until after she finished work (7:00pm or so) I wasn’t that worried – it would mean a little later – no big deal. I told Andy the situation, and he offered to hang out and introduce me to the friends he was going to see before starting a month-long intensive Spanish course (what else would you do with a 6-week holiday while you’re in med school?). When we got off the bus, we tried to orient ourselves and find a pay phone to get in touch with Jochan (if I recall correctly). When we finally got the pay phone to work, I went back to the map at the bus stop to help make finding us easier. I was very amused to discover that we weren’t far from the “Arc de Triomf.” We had some waiting time to kill, so we walked down to the arch, for pictures, and back to meet Jochan.

At some point (while I was still on the bus, I think) Coralie called to say that they had rented a car, and were on their way to another airport, 2 hours away, to try for another flight. She expected to be reachable (and therefore still on the ground in Paris) until at least 7:00pm.

By 6:30 we were at Jochan’s, where his girlfriend, Adriana, had made dinner, and they invited me to eat. Wow. Could I ask for more? I tried Coralie around 7:30, and was somewhat relieved that her machine picked up right away, hoping that meant that she was in the air. After dinner, we watched a little TV (Family Guy and Simpsons in English!) and decided to go out for a drink. Just as we were getting ready to go, having decided how to deal with my stuff, and how we would deal with meeting up with Coralie, she called to say that they were just landing, and that she would need to go back to Terrassa with her colleagues to get her car, and then attempt to come meet me. We took a map, and headed off – out for a drink, having told her that I would call within an hour to let her know how to find us.

When I called, and tried to explain where we were (in a mall, near the Gran Casino), she mentioned that I had better take the train, which was definitely the simpler solution, since she wasn’t really familiar with the roads and routes in Barcelona. We never actually made it out for a drink, and instead headed back to the apartment (where they had already offered to let me stay over, refusing to let me search, in the dark, for a place to stay, in a language I didn’t speak. I had been hoping that it was an offer that I would be able to avoid accepting) to get my bags. Adriana decided to stay there, and rather than walk me to the metro, Andy and Jochan accompanied me right to the train station…where do I find these people, and how can I keep doing so? They even paid for my train ticket, because they happened to get the coins out of their pockets faster than I did. I paid them back, but still! I had written down my phone number and email address on the subway, but didn’t have time to get theirs in the rush. Unfortunately, I missed the 11:02 (which I thought was at 11:08) by about 10 seconds, and had to wait for the 11:40 (which I’m sitting on as I write this). Andy said he’d call with Jochan’s number, so that if/when Coralie and I got (back) into the city, we could get together for a proper drink. I also invited them to Mulhouse to return the favours that they pretty much showered on me!

Well, I should be in Terrassa any minute now…so, there you have it; my modes of transportation were all fine, but my trip still didn’t start as planned! Will I ever have an uneventful trip? (not that I’m complaining, I got to meet some great people as a result of this trip-gone-wrong!)

Chapter 60 – It begins…and it hasn’t even begun yet

February 24, 2004
As if I haven’t proven my point about trips always being an adventure, I don’t leave for 3 days, and the adventure has already begun. I’m leaving for Barcelona on Friday, and Tuesday going from there up to Prague (via Frankfurt). You’d think that wouldn’t be so complicated since Frankfurt is more or less voyage-central of Europe. But no. I finally managed to get a translator so I could book my train ticket on the German train site (the site is all available in English – among other languages – right up until the booking page, at which point it’s all in German) and was getting things sorted out, only to discover that I couldn’t book and pick up the tickets later; they had to mail them to me. This, of course, is no longer an option, since by they time they get to me, I’ll be in, or en route to, Barcelona, and I don’t have the address to send them to in Barcelona. And despite the phone number being in the English pages, nobody there seems to speak English (this is very odd, since it seems like just about every German speaks English, especially those working in, say, the travel industry). So I’ve decided to suck it up take my trips, and hope for room on the train when I show up in Frankfurt (that’s where my flight from Barcelona will take me, since this has been my plan for a while). And if not, well, I pull another train station all-nighter (the first available train after my afternoon arrival is at 11:45pm) or I give up, and take the train home. Obviously, my preference is to get myself to Prague though.

February 27, 2004
I’m not even sure my 1-2 day trips anywhere can be considered real trips, so this was well overdue: I’m on my way to Barcelona. After a failed attempt to get to bed early (a friend of mine moves away today, so we were up late talking), I couldn’t get to sleep at all. Between the fact of several friends leaving Mulhouse, and sheer fear of missing trains, buses and planes today, my heart was racing to an extreme I don’t recall ever feeling. It was really strange. In the end, I probably got 4 hours sleep, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. Well, now’s a good time to talk about the plan. The travel for today: 8:01 bus from the bottom of campus to the train station (check). 8:26 train from Mulhouse to Basel (check). 9:13 train from Basel, Switzerland, to Baden Baden, Germany (that’s the train I’m currently sitting on, so I guess that’s check). Arrive in Baden Baden at 10:40, 10:55 (30-minute) bus to the airport. Check in between 11:10 and 12:30, take off at 1:10, arrive outside Barcelona (Gerona) at 3:00, find a bus into the city, then a train back out to Terrassa (where my friend, Coralie, lives). Despite my fears of missing various modes of transportation today, the bigger concern is leg 2 of my trip on Tuesday. I fly from Barcelona Reus (outside Barcelona on the other side) to Frankfurt, then the plan is a train to Prague. The main problem? Due to a variety of issues (starting with German and ending with bad timing) I haven’t been able to book tickets on the first train (already 9 hours after my arrival; I get into Frankfurt at 2:50pm, and the next train is at 11:47pm). Actually, there’s one at 3:00 something, but I haven’t the first clue where the airport that I’m flying into and the train station are relative to one another. So the plan? Probably the least planned plan I’ve ever planned; find the train station, and hope for a ticket. As I sit on the (very classy) ICE train, watching the German landscape go by, I’m at ease with my poorly planned plan for the first time (we’ll see if I feel that way on Tuesday though!).

(later)…12 minutes to Baden Baden, and if I know the Germans, not a minute later!

Chapter 59 – The French cinema experience

February 23, 2004
On my second trip to the theatre (the first was a few weeks ago to see 21 grams), I made some interesting discoveries…The first, I quickly recalled that someone had already warned me of this, but I had since forgotten: I figured that for the full experience, I should get popcorn this time. I happily took the bag of shiny (mmmm, buttery goodness) popcorn, and headed off to catch up with my friends. I was more than a little shocked that the shiny goodness had nothing to do with butter; it was sugar. Okay, there are things that we could learn from the French, but I think we need to teach them the proper way to eat popcorn! I mean, sure, you can buy caramel corn or other sweet stuff as a treat, but for movie watching, it’s lots of butter and lots of salt, or nothing! It’s not that it tasted bad, but I was just so disappointed that it wasn’t the flavour I wanted…

My next discovery was much cooler (at least in my opinion). We were seeing Brother Bear (the new Disney) which, like all movies in France, is dubbed (apparently this is just a French thing, but it’s far from news to me anyway…this was not the discovery). In this movie, Phil Collins does most, if not all, of the songs, and I was shocked (and thoroughly impressed) that he also does them all in French too! It was particularly amusing to see the credits of each song (Phil Collins, interpreted by Phil Collins). I thought that that was really really cool.

I feel like there were other discoveries, but oh well.

Chapter 58 – No pain…no pain!

February 14, 2004
I was rather shocked, on my way to the grocery store today, that I don’t hurt! After my trip to London, my legs were killing me, seemingly a different muscle every day. Granted, I spent 2 days there rather than one, but still. I’m getting back in shape…yay!

February 16, 2004
I decide to turn on the TV and lay down for a little nap this afternoon, accidentally forgetting to lock the door as I have gotten in the habit of doing…inevitably that was a mistake. I was initially woken up when the TV antenna fell, but just a minute or two later, someone opened my door; one of my former students to make it that much funnier. She looked downright horrified. I got up and locked the door after she left, and a few minutes later, heard a knock. It was her again, apologizing profusely for having mistaken my door for the hall door. The worst of it (as she put it) is that she had wanted to ask me a favour; she’ll be translating her resume and a cover letter, and was hoping I would take a look at it. I just can’t believe that the one time I forget…I mean, I would hear if someone tried when it was locked, and that’s only happened maybe once or twice, and certainly not in ages.

Chapter 57 – The 25-hour day (Part 2)

February 12, 2004 (7:15pm)
How it actually happened (so far). I got in, as expected, at 9:30, and headed to the embassy…only to discover what I should have already known: I needed the consulate, not the embassy. The lady gave me a sheet with the address and nearest metro stop, but didn’t know how to get there on foot. I headed…

- pause to chat with someone at the bar -

8:30pm
I headed out the door, and asked a city worker directions. He told me to take the next left, and then keep going straight (“toujours tout droit”) until Concorde, then ask directions again. That sounded okay: I’ve been to Place de la Concorde before. In fact, it was our first stop when Cynthia and I were here last year. I walked a couple of blocks, and decided to ask a guy at a newspaper stand, to get something more precise. His first reaction (you’re gonna love this, Sean): “Oh la la!” Yeah, where I was going wasn’t quite as close as I had hoped. Amusingly, it was a whole 1 subway stop away from the Moose. Funny how things work out. I might have walked anyway, but I wanted to be sure to be there well before noon, in case of a long wait, and it was already after 10:30. Anyway, so the newspaper guy was really nice, and laughed about the directions I had gotten from the city worker. He said that any time someone doesn’t feel like actually helping you out, everything in Paris is “toujours tout droit”. He pulled out one of the maps he had for sale to show me where I was, and where I was going (an entirely different “arrondissement:” the areas that Paris is broken into, each with it’s own municipal government, they’re that big). He directed me to the nearest subway station, and laughed when I asked if it was, by any chance, toujours tout droit. In any case, he was really nice, so I never really got upset about the original “help” I’d got. I got to the consulate with nearly and hour of just-in-case waiting time, but the wait was anything but long. Including asking questions, a 10-minute walk to the post office and back, I think I spent 25 minutes there.

Sadly, the reason for the trip to the post office sort of negated the original purpose for this whole trip: turns out it’s not something they do same-day. This was a surprise since I was looking for a 5-day visa, and my long-stay visa for France was done same day…Anyway, either I come back to Paris next week (a sort of expensive habit) or I pay for secure, next-day mailing (more than 1/2 the cost of another trip to Paris, but minus the 10-11 hours of travel time). I really didn’t want my passport anywhere in the postal system, but it was the better option. Ah well.

I spent the rest of the day walking (just ask my feet). I must have crossed the Seine a million times to take the odd picture, or to check something out that had caught my eye from the other side. It was pretty cool; I ended up stumbling on the Louvre and Place de la Concorde by accident, since they were both quite near the consulate…and right next to each other. Like last time, I got lost en route to the Eiffel Tower. It’s funny how that thing can disappear behind buildings a fraction of the size as you get closer. By the time I’d made my way there, and taken my pictures, it was time to head in the direction of the Moose for some dinner. That walk took a bit longer than expected (and felt like waaaay longer; again, just ask my feet) and it got dark quickly.

When I sat down at the bar, I was caught totally off-guard upon being greeted with a “hello.” It’s not all that shocking since the bar’s website is entirely in English, but I’m just not used to hearing it! I first asked if the guy knew of any Canadian stores around, so I could see if there was anything interesting I could bring back with me that I haven’t seen in Mulhouse. He said that he didn’t know of any, and has been here 14 years. I asked if he was the owner, and, with the yes that I got, if he knew Samantha (a former co-worker of mine who told me about this place)…yeah Sam: Marc (Mark?) says hi!

I debated over ordering poutine, but decided to go with a bacon cheeseburger: soooooo good. I then met Sebastian, a German hanging out in Paris for a few months, looking for a job before he goes back to Austria, where he’s in med school. Nice guy. A little odd though; apparently he doesn’t really speak French, but he wants a job in Paris…which is what brought him to the Moose. His English was virtually flawless though, like many Germans. The owner told him that they were overstaffed, but recommended a couple of places, suggesting the he use his name to help him out. I thought that that was pretty cool. I was a little skeptical about the over-staffed bit, but in retrospect I get the impression that it’s entirely possible that they are overstaffed, but that if Sebastian had been Canadian, they would have found something for him to do. I thought that was pretty cool.

And now, here I am killing time. It’s now almost 9:00, so I’ll kill one more hour before I head in the direction of the train station.