Senses from Europe

This was a tough post to write, picking just one instance for each sense. So I may need to choose more in the future.

Sight – Lyon, France

It’s November. In Southern France, it’s comfortable weather for worn jeans, a 3rd Maine t-shirt, and a light jacket. The sun is shining and the air is still. Not stale – just still. If this weren’t a city, it would be peaceful. But the walk from Le Flaneur Guesthouse passes the Rhône and Saône rivers towards the Basilica of Notre Dame. Cars honk (not like NYC though) and I have to dodge a few bicyclists. It takes thirty minutes to where the real trek begins.

I look at my phone. Just eighteen minutes left – should be simple. Between Johnny’s Place and Rue des Farges, I realize how out of shape I am and how steep this hill is. I trek segments of stairs and a one-lane road that should just be stairs. One car rides down slowly. I let it pass, standing near an old door that I half expect a Knight Templar to exit from. Thankfully, there are few people to listen to me breathing heavily.

When I reach near level terrain on Rue de l’Antiquaille, I take a break. Walls line the narrow street. A great defensive position of the medieval period. It’s a quick walk now, I’m anxious to get there early. I can see the steeple ahead of me and the four towers. As I reach the doors, I see a lookout to my right. There’s just one man there, on his phone. He’s wearing a black beanie. I focus my attention beyond the man, and there’s the entire city of Lyon at the base of the “hill that prays.”

Lyon basks in the sun, protected in parts by clouds. I see mountains in the distance, a factory of some sort, and buildings – old and new. Just below, I can trace my path back to the hostel. I think briefly of the two English girls I met. I wonder how I’ll be able to dance all night after the hike I just had. A nap will be necessary.

This feels like the first time I find beauty in a city. Perhaps it’s my vantage point, where I’m able to capture the red-tiled roofs and the concrete structures underneath. Nature, to me, is more beautiful. But Lyon looks lovely. Cars and a van or two cross the bridge. They look tiny to me; I feel alone and secluded from the world for a moment. I can observe everything from my perch here, leaning on the low wall that probably saves at least three babies a year.

I’m not very religious. But I do feel some connection to “God” here. The sun warms my face. The sound of the city is almost non-existent up here. Almost. And for a moment, I feel very much at peace. I forget that I’m freshly single. I forget that I need a job when I get home. I forget that I need to work out more. And I just feel very happy…or maybe content. I’m not even sure what the best word is. I feel satisfied with where I am. I hold that feeling for maybe a minute…if that. But it’s long enough to capture and use for the future. I decide it’s time to enter the church. But inside is nothing compared to the view of Lyon.

Taste – Bistecca alla Fiorentina

My brother and I are in search of a certain steak in Florence. We’ve walked the narrow streets swarming with foreign tongues. We haven’t eaten since lunch and we’re hungry. I haven’t had a drop of water in hours. I feel faint. Fatigued from brotherly feuds and anxious for food. Good food.

Will and I Google “Florence steaks” and many of the results are centered around the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. We expect this steak to be expensive, but we decide to veer away from the central area where restaurants can raise prices on tourists. We reverse our direction, headed back from where we came from. I put in the closest nearest steak restaurant: Bisteccheria Santa Croce.

By the time we enter, Will and I are ready to consume a cow. But we order one steak to split – a one-and-a-half pound steak. Before the grand masterpiece, we order side salads, potatoes, and a stew. I decide on a red wine from Abruzzo. Will sticks with water. He guzzles it down. While the salads and stews are delicious and consumed with great care to appreciate the flavors, the main course is presented in its raw form by the waiter. He smiles as we stare in awe, wondering if we will be able to conquer such a piece of meat.

The wine is strong. It’s $45 good. I question if I enjoy wine, as a beer would go down smoother, but I appreciate the bitterness and the sweetness. They combine into something that a wine master would be able to put into words. But the rest of us just call it tasty.

When the steak comes out, it’s presented on a well used round platter. The edge has a moat to collect any juices. The steak is rare, garnished, and simply looks ravishing. Will and I moan in excitement. It would be inappropriate if the reason wasn’t this $95 pound and half worth of meat.

We split this massive amount of meat, grateful we are young and able to have so much red meat without worry. My fork jabs into the first bite with ease. It’s like lobster meat. The consistency is of cooled animal fat, but with the texture of steak. It’s been seasoned lightly, allowing the full flavor of the meat to be enjoyed. Picture your most tender steak. Times that by ten. You’re close to THIS steak. Even the fat is worth eating, but that texture (fat is fat) is less appetizing. I eat a little bit with each bit of meat.

Hearing – Is that English?

This is a bittersweet one. When I arrive in London via the train from Brussels, I hear more English than in the last two months of travel. By this time, I’ve lost my own Maine accent. I annunciate my words, especially the “R”s. I speak slowly. I use my hands more (if that’s possible). My eyes wander between someone’s mouth and their eyes when they talk, as I work to understand them.

But in London, I can understand people. Okay, not everyone! The train is full of native French speakers (I can pick up a phrase here or there). But suddenly, I feel less tension. There’s less pressure on my brain. I can feel a sensation of lightness on my brain cells. I’m not required to listen more closely, translate every sign, or have to think of something, translate it in my head, and say it. This is the first time I realize the work I’ve done on this trip.

I’m excited to call my friend, Pierre. I’m excited to hang out and, ironically, I’m excited to speak French with him…a little. For now, as I wander out of the train station, I appreciate the dozens of conversations I can tune into. No more translation headaches, I think to myself.

Still, the past two months have given me cause to learn more languages – to become fluent in French and to study Spanish. I’m grateful to be hearing English again, but I’m already missing being immersed in other languages. Oh! Is that Pierre calling me?

Smell – First Foods of Europe…and drinks

When you think of delicious smells, Paris is not on that list. But if you ignore the crowded metros and the smell of a million cigarettes lit at the same time, Paris has some better smells. My first smell that piqued my interest was the Indian style lunch I had on my first day – fresh off the plane. I enjoyed it with a beer and a couple of occasional words with the waiter. He spoke plenty good English, but I wanted the challenge. This first French meal (even though it was Indian) smelled of spices and savory chicken in that Indian sauce.

One of my favorite things I had in Paris was mac n cheese. But it was brie cheese. This restaurant sold mac n cheese with french fromages (that’s cheese…in French. I figured there’s only so many times I can say cheese in a paragraph…) The owner was extremely kind and we spoke in between bites of heaven. Unfortunately, my next experience with brie cheese had the opposite effect. I anticipated recreating this delightful pasta creation…the smell nearly made me puke.

There are a lot of good beers in this world. And I’m lucky to have many delicious options in Maine. But this Tripel LeFort, a Belgian blonde of 8.8%, was potent both in smell and strength. Potent in a good sense. First, it smelled like fruit, vanilla, and haze. And second, you only need one to feel its influence. I had two.

Touch – Rome

Walking the streets of Rome…sometimes I felt extremely connected to such people as Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. In the Roman Forum, I pictured the legions marching through to celebrate their victory over one of the provinces, Egypt, or elsewhere. I could hear politicians speaking to the public about the need for higher taxes. Rome is a portal to the past. Don’t tell anyone, but I may have touched a column or two.

It’s not just reaching into history that makes Rome great. The city just feels…right. I walked for miles in every direction, exploring museums, shops, and random side streets. The people you meet are super friendly. From the nearby bar owner who gave directions to three of the best restaurants nearby to the folks from New York who chatted us up for half an hour while at the Marcellus Theater. Rome felt warm and inviting. It felt exciting and quiet all at the proper times. Not quiet in a literal sense. Rome is the New York City of Europe. But I found quiet time when I needed it.

And dancing at Scholars Lounge! That place is the best!