That day I had taken the train from Nice to Monaco just to inspect the beaches. I
stepped off the train and on to the cleanest train platform in all of Europe, only to,
minutes later, step back on the a train going the opposite direction. Running parallel
along the sparkling Mediterranean, the train slowed to a stop. A giant cruise ship
had anchored off shore and dozens of sailboats surrounded the vessel. It resembled
a motionless school of fish.
The beach wasn’t a perfect white, like I had imagined, but rather more like
gold. The sand was pebble, and the water was surprisingly cool in contrast to the
nearly 40° heat. The beach was lined with people, locals and tourists, both equally
enjoying the perfect situation that was, and is, Villefranche Sur Mer.
I’ve never had a near death experience before and accordingly I had never
had a near God experience either until that day I came to Villefranche Sur Mer.
My mother was the every-Sunday-churchgoer whereas my father was raised
in a Catholic orphanage and was thus an atheist. I was raised at the center of faith
and disbelief and was never pressured to choose one way over an other. When I was
very young my mother would take me to mass and I would sit beside her on the
pew, holding her hand tightly. Mostly I would grow tiresome and bored—as any
child of that age would. The boredom was tolerable, but the volume of the organ was
not. Whenever the congregation would break into a hymn and the organ would
sound I would begin to cry, cupping my ears in pain.
I was never forced to attend church and had always been given the option to
stay home with my father. As I grew older, more and more I chose to stay home,
watching football or NASCAR races—which I have since grown tired of. My father
never tried to convince me one way or the other, but he did make his views
known. “When I die, my soul can end up in the back of some garage in New Jersey
for all I care,” he would say half jokingly. Sometimes I would wonder what that
would actually be like for him, and regret not attending mass that day with my
mother.
There’s an old saying that states that the Mediterranean cures illness. Before
I arrived in Villefranche Sur Mer I was sick. I had come from Basel, Switzerland via
Milan on the shittiest Italian train. My seat had been between an overweight and
tall, smelly Italian man that didn’t speak a lick of English—at least he didn’t make it
know that he did—and chubby old woman with the worst looking toenails I’ve ever
seen. The majority of the trip I found myself awaiting my first sight the
Mediterranean and staring blankly at the French woman’s repulsive feet. The train
was full of sleazy Italian assholes with knockoff designer sunglasses and their hair
slicked back. Being that my compartment lacked any sign of even mildly attractive
woman, the aforementioned sleazebags passed by relatively quickly.
After a brief run-in with a gaggle of Brazilian girls in a shady hostel in Rome I
fell ill. I found it hard to breathe as well as talk, making travel nearly impossible. I
retreated back to Franconia and the to the only people I knew within a thousand
miles. There I was greeted with open arms, a room to myself and all the sauerkraut
and sausage I could stomach. After a few days of recuperation I left for a wet and
rainy Switzerland. With the rain also came very little will to do anything. I hated
Basel and I hated life in Basel. I had gone from a place that felt like home and from
people that felt like family to one of the lowest points in my life.
I did very little in Basel. I completely stopped writing in my journal and spent
the majority of my time in my bunk. The highlight of the city came in the comfort of
the alien pizzeria I ate in each day and night and the cab ride to the train station on
the day I left Switzerland. I had even been given a free transportation card for the
entire city but never once used it. I spent money on nothing besides pizza and my
hostel and left Switzerland with an abundance of unspent Francs.
Upon my arrival to the sea I didn’t feel instantly cured of my deeply
depressed state, but rather felt worse when I exited the train and found myself in
France for the first time. I had booked my accommodations, a dirty two star hotel
with dorm residences, close to the train station on the grounds that I didn’t plan on
sticking around Nice much but rather branching out to Monaco, where hostels were
nonexistent. I arrived in Nice around dusk and walked the three or four blocks from
the train station to my hotel. I quickly became aware that my hotel was located in
Nice’s small, but existent red light district. On each side of the hotel and directly
across the street were sex shops. I checked in and stashed my belongings under the
flimsy bunk bed and decided to venture into the sex shop across the street. The man,
dirty with brown hair stayed behind the counter and watched a small television on
which a naked man with a Bert Reynolds style moustache nailed a partially naked
woman in the ass repeatedly. After a quick peruse of the videos, of which the
majority contained subpar looking women from the 80s and men with an
abundance of testosterone and chest hair, I knew I needed something to drink.
I found a small minimart—again adjacent to a sex shop—and quickly
snatched up a couple of liter bottles of an unfamiliar brand of Dutch beer and a bag
of “fromage” snacks that were undoubtedly French Cheetos. I went back to the
room, of which I shared with five other travelers, and pulled out my journal with the
intent of writing. After staring at the blank page, fantasizing about writing some
gonzo travel log of my debauchery abroad, the girls I didn’t sleep with and the drugs
I didn’t take, I began eagerly drinking the stout beer. After I had emptied both
bottles of beer, which I only discovered after were of an extra high alcohol content, I
felt a strong and very evident buzz and found my bed to be extremely welcoming.
I awoke before sunrise to find my journal and the empty bottles of beer right
on the table where I left them. Rolling over I noticed that two of my fellow
roommates, rough, but attractive Aussies, dressing in the corner next to the air
conditioner, one being in the process of latching her bra. I closed my eyes and
pretended to be asleep until they left. I grabbed a cup of horrible coffee from the so-
called “breakfast” downstairs and, with towel and an unopened bottle sunscreen in
hand I made my way to the train station.
I remember passing Villefranche Sur Mer, seeing the mass of sailboats and
beachgoers, and feeling somewhat better—somewhat alive again.
During that drive to the Portland Airport on the day I left for Frankfurt I felt sick. Part of me wanted to stop the car, turn around and go home, while the other
half of me wanted nothing more than to be independent. I though of my bruised
reputation and the reception I would receive from my friends having bailed the solo
European adventure I had talked up ever so much. The nausea seemed to suddenly
halt upon reaching the drop-off zone. As I unloaded my backpack from the tail end
of the Blazer my mother who opened a small no-frills box, reveling a gold St.
Christopher necklace, met me as I shut the tailgate. She slid the necklace around my
neck and straightened the medallion so it was facing out. I turned the medal over
and read, “Go Live Life” inscribed on the reverse side. I gave her a hug, shook my
father’s hand and entered the giant sliding doors, making my way inside the
terminal.
I tossed my shirt onto my bright yellow towel and rose to my feet. I slowly
began to sink into the pebble sand of Villefranche Sur Mer. I clasped the St.
Christopher medal in my hand as I surveyed the sea. To my left and to my right I saw
the many beachgoers, some young, some old, some topless, but all of which
appeared in bliss as if Villefranche Sur Mer was heaven. I took a couple steps
forward and further into the sea. I thought of nothing. Peace and serenity we’re all I
felt. I waited until the next wave came ashore and dove in headfirst. I swam out
away from the shore about thirty feet before dipping my head under and bringing it
again out of the water. Treading water, I turned back to face the shore and to admire
the most beautiful place coastal area on the face of the earth. The pastel colors of the
apartments and condominiums meshed with the green foliage of the coastal
vegetation on the hillside above, while below a beautiful teenage girl in a black and
white polka-doted two-piece bikini surveyed the sea, hands placed firmly on her
hips, accentuating her alluring breasts.
I hadn’t read about this place in any guidebook and I certainly had never
heard of Villefranche Sur Mer before that July day. It was as if something had drawn
me to this place—something other than the awe-inspiring scenery and pristine
beach. It felt right. I felt right. This was what I had come to Europe for. This is what I
had come to Europe to experience—life.
Taking a deep breath I dove down with the intentions of swimming ashore.
As I dove down I felt the St. Christopher necklace slide off my neck and over my
head. Instantly, I opened my eyes and saw the silver of chain in the clear water
falling towards the bottom of the seafloor. With one smooth swipe, completely
lacking in hesitance, I snagged the necklace—catching it only on my pinky finger.
Rising to the surface, my fist clinched, I brought the necklace from the water. Taking
my time I examined necklace as if it wasn’t the one that hung from my neck only
seconds prior. I put the necklace back around my neck and, with one hand on the
medallion, swam quickly ashore.
Back on the beach and back on my towel I held the necklace to the sky—the
medallion sparkling in the Mediterranean sun. As I put it back around my neck for a
second time, I couldn’t help but think my lucky grab was more than just luck, that
something divine had occurred. Lying back on the towel I closed my eyes and didn’t
remove my hand from the gold medallion as I fell asleep on the Villefranche Sur Mer
sand.
