Villefranche Sur Mer

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.