I believe I’ve created a false impression on this blog.

Despite my attempt at cheerful travel writing, traveling to foreign countires is not always rainbows and butterflies. Not everything city is young and vibrant. Not every journey is smooth and worry-free. And the weather doesn’t always cooperate.

In a hasty photo-essay during October of last year, I posted pictures from my time in Geneva, Interlaken, and Zurich, Switzerland. I didn’t write this at the time but, while Geneva was politically insightful and Zurich was architecturally beautiful, the Swiss Alps were, unfortunately, disappointing.

Locals at the Alps live by the everchanging weather there. When the weather is bad (read rainy, cloudy, and foggy), it can spoil your entire trip. It was my bad luck and forgetting to check the weather beforehand that it poured every single day I was there. I spent my entire time at the Alps trapped inside the hostel, glued to the weather channel on TV, and praying that the viewing cameras would show just a glimpse of the snowy peaks I had travelled so far to see.

Instead, a thick white smog covered the sky for three days.




I had travelled to the Alps on what I thought would be the single most amazing trip of my entire European journey. The Alps had other plans.

It was frustrating and disappointing all at once. But what can you do when something out of your control stood to ruin your time in a supposedly amazing place?

I snuggled up in bed with lots of hot chocolate and a good book; I got to know my roommates, an engaged American couple who were backpacking across Europe; and I read up on the history of Switzerland.

When it was time to leave Interlaken, I was confronted by my mixed feelings. I was excited to discover the more amazing journeys ahead of me, yet, in an unexpected way, I felt attached to the warm shelter I had called home for the last three days. Perhaps leaving the Alps empty-handed also left me with a strange connection to the place.

Switzerland, I’ll be back for you.

When I began my summer job this past June, I was asked to reveal a fun fact about myself.  I proudly responded, “I once hitch-hiked across the French-Spanish border." Truthfully, hitchhiking with 2 of my friends was one of the crazier things I’ve ever done. I am also fully aware that my risk-averse self would probably never have the chance to do it again.

Last November, during yet another brutal French railroad strike, my friends and I booked a trip from Paris to Barcelona. That was probably our first mistake. Although common knowledge to locals, I was not expecting the strike to interrupt almost 50% of all train travels. Instead of a direct train ride from one European capital to another, my train stopped in Perpignan, a small town south-east of Toulouse. There, the train conductor kindly told everybody, in French first, then in English, that due to the strike, no train would be going to Spain. The passengers exploded in frustration. In the midst of the complaints, the conductor gestured towards a replacement bus that was scheduled to pick up all the passengers and drive us toward the border instead.

Having already spent the last 6 hours traveling, I was herded onto the replacement bus with the rest of the passengers. We drove, underneath the mid-afternoon sun, on bumpy narrow roads along the French coast. The scenery almost made up for my exhaustion, until I started to feel nauseous from the ride.

Two hours later, I was thankful to be left off the bus in a small town on the French border. The driver pointed to a hill 100 meters in front us. Spain was on the other side.

“The taxis here” the driver instructed, “can take you across the border to the nearest train station in Spain. It is in 8 miles, a 20 minute ride.”

Unbeknownst to the passengers when we boarded the bus, the driver was not permitted to drive across the border. A few passengers joined forces to bribe him to take us across, but alas, he drove off in the direction from which we came.

20 minutes, I thought, that’s manageable. When the first taxi arrived and left with the first four people in line, another problem revealed itself - the town was so small that only one taxi operated there.

Within seconds, my 2 friends, finance and math majors, alerted me that at the current rate, with a crowd of people that originally fit on a train, we would not make it to the nearest Spanish town in time to catch the last train for Barcelona. They presented the problem calmly; after a long day of endless difficulties, they were concerned that this last piece of bad news would push me over edge. Having been a thorough planner my entire life, I was certainly beginning to feel devastated.



After 10 minutes of debate, our only other choice became very clear - we would have to walk the 8 miles. I was raised by two parents who grew up in communist regimes. They taught me to respect authority, work hard, put the needs of the group before my own, and most importantly,  they taught me to never complain. So I didn’t. Instead, I shrugged as we trekked toward the foot of the hill with our backpacks. The three of us began to discuss our favorite travel destinations to make the miles seem shorter. Half jokingly, one of my friends stuck out his thumb as we began to climb the hill. All three of us chuckled. It had been a tough day of traveling, but at least the three of us were still bound together by good spirits.

Within 20 seconds up the hill, a car pulled over in front of us. A young woman stepped out from the passenger side, “Do you have your passports?”

The three of us exchanged bewildered looks before we ran towards the vehicle. “Yeah, yeah, we do!”

Her husband was driving and nodded toward us as we climbed into the car.

With the three of us were happily squished together in the backseat, we thanked them profusely for stopping. “No problem,” the lady smiled graciously, “it’s common here; there’s only 1 taxi!”

We laughed in unison. As the vehicle climbed to the top of the hill, I could see the sun begin to set over the border. It was a beautiful 20 minutes to Spain. 

The city flooded when I was there exactly a year ago. Locals say it happens every autumn with the heavy rainfall.

I don’t remember why I didn't write about Venice after my trip across Europe, but I do remember thinking that the city was sinking, and wondering what would happen if the flooding never stopped.

I remember walking down the slippery steps of the train station and standing in front of a city on water. I remember the flood reaching my knees. I remember prepared locals who went about their business in rain boots around St. Mark’s Square while tourists struggled to walk on make-shift catwalks hoisted above the water by bricks. I remember the crisp feel of winter in the air.

I remember trying to find my hostel within the narrow alleys that twisted, turned, and intersected. I remember walking on bridges big and small and just about tossing the map into the canal in despair. I remember eavesdropping on one American couple asking for directions at a restaurant and laughing at the waiter’s instructions that repeated “left, right, left, bridge; left, right, left, bridge”.

I remember counting the number of garbage boats that floated by on the canal and marveling at the Venetian version of waste control. I remember window-shopping outside of tiny storefronts with glistening Venetian masks hanging in the windows. I remember spying on tourists in gondolas as the oarsmen steered them around the lagoon. Even though the striped shirts of the gondoliers were all for show, I remember thinking how timeliness it seemed.

I remember eating pizza next to a middle-aged couple who held hands across the table as they dined. I remember sitting behind a group of Italian friends on the vaporetto - the water bus -  as they pointed out historical buildings to each other.

Despite the rain, I remember Venice in vivid colours. I also remember wishing that I didn’t have to leave so soon.

Prior to leaving for Montreal, I polled my friends and canvassed  Twitter for must-do suggestions. What I received was a long list of restaurants and dining selections, which suggested that I'd better prepare my stomach for a weekend of endless eating. Boy oh boy, I was not disappointed!

Schwartz's

My first meal in the city was, on the recommendation of friends, at the Schwartz's deli down the street from where I was staying. The line-up that stretched two storefronts outside assured me that this was a hot spot for visitors. A designated tourism location by more several travel guides, the place was packed wall to wall with customers, most of whom were eagerly waiting on the deli's infamous smoked meat sandwich. I only had the audacity to eat half a smoked meat sandwich, which was probably a good 2 pounds by itself. It was the most meat I had ever consumed at 3pm in the afternoon, and a darn good smoked meat sandwich at that.

Poutine

The sandwich from Schwartz's filled me up past dinner, but by 9:30pm, I was craving for more deliciousness. Like all late-night cravings, I was in the mood for something fast, filling and incredibly unhealthy. After turning down several streets of high end French restaurants, I stumbled upon Frite Alors and immediately found what I was looking for - poutine. Not just any poutine, Montreal poutine. I got a little carried away with the order and ended up with a large dish of poutine and a even larger topping that included bacon. Talk about heart attack on a plate!! Nevertheless, I still made it through the unhealthy yet satisfying fries to blog about it today.

Crepes

I was full from the poutine for the rest of the trip (that's 2 whole days!) and don't remember eating much else after that, but I made sure that I didn't leave Montreal without having some crepes. On my last morning in the city, I visited a cozy cafe called Laika for Sunday brunch and ordered the most delicious crepes I've ever had, that's including all the crepes I ate during the four months I spent living in France. I would go back to Montreal just for that!