The Politics of Travel (Or, How to Name a Blog)

Finding lost books in Paris.

"Every individual is however capable of producing a sort of cold revolution within himself by stepping outside the infomercial flow. It's very easy to do. It has in fact never been simpler than today to adopt an aesthetic position in relation to the world: all you have to do is take a step to the side . . . It is enough to pause; to switch off the radio, unplug the television; not to buy anything else, not to want to buy anything else . . . It is enough, literally, to be still for a few seconds."

The above passage is taken from an essay called "Approaches to Distress" that appears in The Paris Magazine (not to be confused with The Paris Review). The essay is by French writer, poet, and philosopher Michel Houellebecq (pronounced "Well-beck"); the English translation is by George Miller.

What book did I find? Ovid!

"Approaches to Distress" is a very packed philosophical essay. In it, Hoellebecq takes on the functionality of contemporary architecture, the commodification of life at the microsociological level, and how literature is perhaps the only art form that can "digest unlimited amounts of derision." I promise: this post is not that complicated.

No, the reason why I wanted to share the above quote with you is because it kind of explains how this blog got its name. Sometimes when I tell people that my travel site is called Of Revolt, they look at me like I've got six different kinds of WMDs stashed in my purse. Why call it something that sounds vaguely combative, instead of something soft, friendly, like Little Yessie's Happy Travel Thoughts?

The aesthetic position I have adopted here: reclining.

Well, I chose the name I did because 1. it sucks way less than Little Yessie's Happy Travel Thoughts and 2. when Dan and I decided to travel the world and follow our respective dreams of music and writing, the decision felt like a major rebellion. I felt, as Houellebecq writes, that I was "producing a sort of cold revolution within" myself - one that existed outside of wanting things, one in which I would de-program from the constant intake of advertising, one where I would be more alert to global politics and the effects of these policies on the world and its people.

For years, I had already been taking small steps to remove myself from the "infomercial flow." I no longer owned a television (though I delighted in regular deliveries of Mad Men from Netflix). I dabbled in veganism and became a vegetarian (though I adore French saucisson and have no qualms about indulging). I learned to control every little feeling of covetousness, and identify what I really wanted instead.

The arch in front of the Louvre in Paris.

The "aesthetic position" I have adopted in relation to the world is this: I do believe that travel will change a person for the better and that people, especially Americans, deserve more time off from work to do just that (did you know that the U.S. is the only advanced nation in the world that doesn't guarantee its workers vacation time? How progressive! *Snort*). That being said, I don't think you have to quit your job and travel the world wearing hippie pants and Chacos for an indefinite period of time just to be a good person. People can produce their own revolutions just by making informed, thoughtful choices in their daily lives - whether it's about what they're eating, what they're wearing, or even just what they're choosing to read before bed at night (does anybody else still do that? Holla!)

So go ahead: switch off the radio, unplug the television, pause, be still for a few seconds. It will be your own moment of revolt.

* * *

P.S. I just realized this post has the last pictures of France you'll be seeing for a while! I leave for the Netherlands this afternoon, so check back later this week to see what shenanigans Dan and I have gotten ourselves into in Amsterdam. (I bet you can guess what we'll be up to . . . !)

A Day Trip to Avignon

We set out on our day trip to Avignon on a gorgeously sunny day. The ride from Aix-en-Provence to Avignon takes just about an hour, but feels much shorter when you're riding in a sporty little convertible with the top down, like we did. (See how it pays to make friends with the locals?! Thanks again Apryl and Louise!)

The main attraction for any visit to Avignon is seeing Le Palais des Papes - literally the "Palace of Popes." It's a grand and intimidating structure, with an equally incredible history. Seven popes lived there starting with Clement V in 1309, who moved the papacy from Rome to Avignon because of the violent uproar that occurred after his election.

The interiors of the palace are enormous, though don't expect to find ancient texts or elaborate tapestries decorating the walls. It's actually quite spare, which makes sense after you consider how many times it was seized, sacked, and plundered - in the early 1800s, Napoleon used it as a military barracks and prison, further damaging the beautiful woodwork and frescoes.

A close-up of details from "Portement de Croix," a sculpture by Italian artist Francesco Laurana. It was commissioned by King René in 1478, and remains in relatively good condition all these hundreds of years later. Though I'm not a particularly religious person, I found this piece rather moving. Something about the faces . . . 

. . . and how they are doomed to the contortions of pain and despair for all of time. I think the mark of great art is how and whether it stays with you, after you've moved on from viewing it. 

Gargoyles pierce the blue sky at the top of the palace. From the terrace, there are panoramic views over all of Avignon. Imagine what it must have been like to be an archer stationed in the tower, watching hordes of angry rebels swarming over the castle. Sigh. Maybe I've just watched Lord of the Rings too many times. 

This lovely medieval bridge is called Pont Saint Bénezet, though it's also known as the Pont d'Avignon. You can't see it here, but the bridge doesn't completely span the Rhône River, thanks to a terrible flood in 1668 that wiped out most of the structure, so that only four of the original twenty-two arches remain. This might be the only UNESCO World Heritage site that has its own song. 

Just a neat little corner in the center of town. Even though it's a truly ancient city, Avignon gives the impression of being a bit bigger and generally more "urban" than other nearby towns such as Aix-en-Provence and Orange.

I found these paintings all over the sides of buildings everywhere in Avignon. Don't you just adore the vignette of the dapper fellow arguing with the rather elegant lady in yellow? I wonder what the maid upstairs thinks of all these goings-on.

It's not a proper French town without a carousel. The lone rider, a very young girl in a frilly dress, did not appear to be pleased with her mother's decision to plop her on the merry-go-round (cue screaming and tears). Now, if it was me, I would be VERY pleased with both the frilly dress AND the ride. 

As a bit of a history nerd and a major Francophile, the Palais des Papes - and really, all of Avignon - dazzled me. When we were inside the palace, Louise, a Brit, asked if it's disappointing as Americans to not have such incredible ancient monuments in our own country. Personally, it does make me a bit sad that the U.S. doesn't have them (and what little we do have often gets demolished in the name of newness and industry), but I also think it makes it that much more amazing when we do travel and see such things. I thought it was an excellent question, and would love if readers weighed in.

So tell me: Whether you're an American or a visitor to the U.S., are you disappointed by the country's lack of ancient historical monuments?

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This post was sponsored by ULookUBook: travel agents booking holidays, flights, and accommodation around the world. All thoughts and opinions are, of course, my own.

Spotted By Locals: London

Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and me. Power trio.

Blimey! It's another Spotted By Locals post! This time I'm taking you to foggy London town, where the days are rainy and the nights are . . . um, well . . . rainy-er? 

Here's a snippet from the article:

"Usually at the end of a day in London I feel like a wet cat: soggy and slightly combative. So when my Couchsurfing host, Dinesh, offered to take me and my fiancé out to dinner, I wanted to say no; I longed to say no. However, considering how welcoming and hospitable he had been, this would not be appropriate behavior.

Plus, part of being a nomad and a traveler is learning to be more open, more accepting of the world and what it has to offer despite how badly your wool coat smells when it’s been beaten by London’s drizzle every day for the last three weeks straight and you just want to sleep until May. So, we said yes." 

Read the rest here: London at Night: A Tale of Three Couchsurfers.

Chip, chip, cheerio then! Meet you at the pub for a pint, mate! (Tee hee!)  

I Got Interviewed! Hooray!

I never get tired of seeing this mountain: Sainte Victoire.

Craig and Caz Makepeace are like the Australian superheroes of travel blogging. They've been rockin' that ish since 1997 and are still going strong now that they have a three year-old daughter. So imagine my absolute surprise and delight when they offered to interview me for their website. (A few pajama-clad fist pumps and super-loud "WOOTS!" may have occurred.) Here's a snippet of the interview:


"Where are you currently and what are you doing?" 
As I type this I am sitting on the balcony of my rented room in Aix-en-Provence, France, enjoying the sunshine, a glass of rosé, and a view of Mt. Sainte Victoire. I'm thinking about going for a swim in the pool later.


Ugh, my life is so hard.


"What are your favorite websites/resources for finding travel deals?"
I love Kayak for serious long-haul flights, and have come to both love and loathe EasyJet - their prices are amazing but their customer service makes me want to fling myself onto the tarmac.


Read the rest of the interview here: Meet Travel Blogger Jessica Kulick. Thanks again Craig and Caz!

Why I'm Glad I Didn't Pack Cargo Pants

Striped sitting on the steps of Sacre Coeur.

I originally had the idea of writing this post as a "What's In My Backpack" type article. Wouldn't readers be fascinated by the contents of my suitcase, the innards of my toiletry kit? Aren't people just dying to know which brand of athletic gear I wear to traipse around the ancient cities of Europe?

Uh, maybe. Probably not. I mean, it's not like I'm Samantha Brown or Anthony Bourdain (or basically any Travel Channel host that ever lived) or something. Knowing what Gary Arndt considers crucial gear is probably way more interesting than knowing that I set out with five pairs of shoes, including two pairs of high heels. (For the record, one was a pair of rather sensible black oxfords with a heel that was only about 2.5" high. They have subsequently been abandoned, having weathered a few too many rainy days to the point that they starting "talking." I still grieve.)

I had the realization that everything I packed had way more personal, emotional resonance than real-life relevance. For example, I have six silk blouses in my suitcase. SIX. And that's not even counting the two silky dresses I brought. One even has sequins, though they're casual sequins, I promise.

Okay, so I'm a little embarrassed now.

Silver silks at the Pont du Gard.

But . . . here's the thing: I packed those six silk blouses because, in my previous profession - hell, in my previous life - there had been no reason to wear them. My workplace had an extremely strict dress code: stiffly starched white collared shirts worn with equally well-ironed black trousers or black skirt. It was positively Draconian, and I felt like I was dressing for a funeral every day, especially when compared to the rest of the fashion show that is the Upper East Side of New York City.

Yes, sometimes if Dan and I were meeting up for cocktails with friends I would gussy up and shimmy into one of those silk beauties. But that wasn't often, because after a day of work I usually just wanted to throw on my most comfortable t-shirt and drink a $2 PBR at the dive bar down the block.

So when we were finally packing our bags to leave, to journey out into the wide world, I knew those blouses were coming. I lovingly rolled them into neat little spirals, and they justified their existence by fitting perfectly into a tiny corner of my luggage.

Boys can get in on this, too:
Dan sitting at a Prague cafe in his "fancy jacket."
Yes, he actually calls it that.

True, they are wildly impractical. "Cleaning" them consists mostly of airing them out overnight. And I definitely would not have brought them had we been traveling to a part of the world where the majority of the population was poverty-stricken, and wearing a luxurious silk shirt would be not only rude, but morally questionable.

But we're in Western Europe, and fashion is its own currency here. It is a small pleasure each day when I pluck one rainbow-colored blouse from my pack, and slip into its soft, cool folds. It reminds me that I have chosen to live a life that is according to my own rules, where the only obligation is to pursue happiness. And if that means climbing mountains in Keds and skinny jeans, well then, so be it.

P.S. I actually don't even own cargo pants, so that kinda throws a wrench into packing them into the first place.

Take Away Concert

After our glorious hike to Mt. Sainte Victoire, Dan and I knew that we wanted to return another day for a picnic. We decided go last Sunday, and thought the mountain would be perfect scenery not only for a picnic but also to shoot a little video for a new song he wrote. The song is called "Pelito Menagerie" and I hope you like it as much as I do, despite the incredible gusts of wind that interfered with both the picnic and the sound. Trust me, the ants ate well that day.

Un Jour de Provence: A Photo Essay

So you know what I realized? That I've been in Aix-en-Provence for just about five weeks now and have never properly introduced the city herself! How could I neglect to show you Aix - the city of a thousand blooming fountains, the hometown of artists Paul Cezanne and Émile Zola, the very place where my love for travel and adoration of all things French began, way back in the autumn of 2005? Dear me.

Instead I've been busy traipsing around the foothills of Mt. Sainte Victoire, ogling the handsome soldiers of the French Foreign Legion (don't tell Dan!), stuffing my gob with treats from the daily markets, and imbibing the wines of Chateauneuf-du-Pape with absolute impunity. Whoops! Well, let us rectify this situation. Without any further ado, Je présente la belle ville d'Aix-en-Provence.

All mornings in Aix must begin at le marché: quickly grabbing the daily baguette, discerning which vegetables are ripe enough for dinner, and getting as close a sniff as the spice seller will allow!

Le grand marché, open Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, has the widest variety of traditional Provençal treats and delicacies. Most vendors will allow you a taste of their wares, so long as you ask nicely. Remember your merci and your s'il vous plaît!

At the square in front of l'Hôtel de Ville, this fountain watches the comings and goings of all Aix's citizens. It was designed by another famous Aixois, sculptor Jean-Pancrace Castel. I find it pleasantly creepy.

Sunshine alights upon the candy-colored apartments in front of l'Hôtel de Ville. At sidewalk level, students and locals meet at cafés for coffee or pastis, a common apéritif that looks like lemonade but - beware  - tastes like black licorice. If you're into that sort of thing.

The Place d'Albertas is one of the most frequently photographed places in Aix-en-Provence, and is often found in tourist literature. Though it's slightly dilapidated, its charm is considerable, especially as the sun sets and the city is illuminated by small street lamps.

The Cours Mirabeau is the main drag of Aix: the expensive cafés that line the sidewalks are places to see and be seen, though I can usually be found furtively squeezing the moss of my favorite fountain. What? You don't do that? 

Many Christian saints are tucked into the sides and corners of buildings in Aix. I like how the neon sign for this tabac, or smoke shop, highlights the saint found here. Gives it the air of naughtiness, no?

If you're planning a trip to Aix, a great place to start would be the website for the Office de Tourisme. Seems obvious, I know, but it was particularly helpful in securing an apartment, as well as finding fun and inexpensive things to do. Also, the people that work there are genuinely friendly, and there's nothing better in my book than sincere customer service. Plus, I so enjoy their slogan: Aix-en-Provence - La Provence par Excellence!

Essential Tips for Traveling as a Couple

At lunch together in Orange, France.
Photo courtesy of Apryl Anderson.

Now, I'm not one for writing lists on the internet. While I love them in real life (sometimes I even add things I've already finished just for the pleasure of checking them off - so fun!), I think the interwebs are so filled with "Top Ten" this and "Five Worst" that, I prefer not to partake in all the blah-blah talk.

However, after nearly four months of non-stop travel with my fiancé, I do feel as if I have some hard-won knowledge about successfully globe-trotting with a significant other, and I want to share it with you. And so, here are my tips, tricks, and two cents' worth on couples' travel:

Feeling the love in front of the Louvre.

1. Make decisions together.
It's really critical in the early stages of planning to think about major issues such as budget, preferred destinations, and length of journey. He likes to relax in luxury resorts and you'd rather save money in a 6-bed hostel dorm room? You kids gotta sort that out. Dan and I discussed for many weeks how much money we were willing to spend, where we were dying to go, and how long we thought we should be away. We agreed on a financial plan (down to a weekly food allowance!) and neither of us cared where we went, so long as he was playing shows and I would be able to write. The length of the journey didn't matter to us either; in fact, we both felt that the minimum length of our trip would be one year, and we could reassess priorities after that time. Determine together what's important to your trip and your relationship.

Busking for fun on the Charles Bridge, Prague.

2. Stay positive.
Dan and I are both very "DIY" kind of people - actually, we're such extreme Do It Yourself-ers that instead of hiring a moving company to clear out our NYC apartment, we packed and schlepped everything ourselves. Up and down five flights. Without an elevator. In February. During an ice storm. And while I would not recommend this to anyone, we handled the labor and the exhaustion really well - throughout the day we consistently encouraged each other to keep going, and reminded each other how exciting it was that our dreams were thisclose to being reality.

If you see your partner struggling, make it a point to go extra easy on them - just like Dan did on the second day of our move, when he found me obsessively scraping bits of white paint off the hardwood floor because I just could not carry another box downstairs without completely losing my mind. (Read: all in the matter of seven days I had quit my job, packed up our entire lives into two duffel bags, and ran around saying good-bye to my family and friends who I would not be seeing for at least a year. I was on the brink.) He just patted me on the back, gave me some iced tea, and let me scrape away until the overwhelming shock of what we were doing passed and I could calmly function again. Bless that boy's heart.

Do you want YOUR travel photos to look like this?
Didn't think so.

3. Pay attention.
Our first month of wayfaring wasn't all rainbows and unicorns - far from it. I was having a hard time adjusting to the realities of perpetual travel, especially with constant couchsurfing: it was difficult to always be a guest, always having to be "on," and even harder to move locations every few days. My hands and back were still sore from moving, and we both developed nasty colds. The nonstop rain and gray winter days of London just exacerbated my already foul mood.

I started complaining about everything from my tired feet to the cost of the Tube. Like, constantly. I couldn't understand why I wasn't having the glorious time we had dreamed of. We started snapping at each other. Finally, after two weeks, we had a serious talk: we had to fix the bad attitudes and it had to be our own responsibility, not the other person's. My whole frame of mind had to change from "This is difficult and therefore sucks" to "This is different and therefore exciting." We realized we hadn't been thinking about the other person as much as we should have; it came down to simple things like not getting frustrated with a "hangry" partner (hungry + angry = hangry) and just getting them a snack instead. Pay attention to your own peccadilloes - they're much easier to manage that way.

Friends don't let friends go hangry.

4. Be flexible
Angry border control agents grilling you for the last half hour? It'll make a good story later. Couchsurfing host lives 45 minutes away from city center - when he said it was only 15? Enjoy seeing a part of the city you wouldn't otherwise. Your ride from Dortmund to Berlin flakes out last minute leaving you stranded? Call it an adventure. You only have enough cash for one museum and not the three that you were dying to see? Make a cheap picnic instead! You see where I'm going with this?

It is absolutely vital to be open-minded when traveling - not only to the nuances of foreign people and new cultures, but also to the challenges that will inevitably throw themselves at you. Face them together. All those things I mentioned above have happened to us, and while they may have been scary (trust me, red-faced customs officers waving their "power" around are quite the alarming spectacle) or disappointing at the time, Dan and I were able to laugh off every single instance, and we're better for it.

Ride like the wind! Straight into the happy horizon!

It doesn't matter whether you're spending two weeks on the beach in Hawaii or two years teaching English in Peru. If you're doing it together, you have to be just that - together. In making the tough decisions and the fun ones. Now, as our French landlady likes to say: "Go! Make your life!"

Art, Wine, Music: All Good Things

A view from the terrace: Mt. Sainte Victoire.

Dan and I have had the good luck of meeting and becoming friends with the lovely artist Apryl Anderson - you might remember from this post. Apryl was able to organize with Hilary of Wine in Provence (another fabulous gal!) to hold an afternoon of art, wine, and music at L'Oustau de St. Marc. 

The restaurant sits at the foot of Mt. Sainte Victoire, so we had gorgeous views from the terrace as we sipped rosé, listened to Dan's music, and meandered through the easels of artwork. 

"Oh my love is like a red, red rose/
That's newly sprung in June;" - Robert Burns

Since a show in Sarstedt, Germany, back in March, Dan has always finished the first half of every performance by inviting me up to the stage to sing three songs (eek!). Even though I really enjoy going up there with him, I'm always a bit sad that we never have photos of us together - one of the pitfalls of traveling as a couple, I suppose. So imagine how glad I was when Sarah, Apryl's daughter, grabbed a camera and shot the two photos of Dan and I together, as well as the close-up of . . . uh . . . my big ole' face. She's got an eye for composition, no?

Dan singing under the shade of an umbrella.

These days we sing together! Though I only do three songs . . . 

Regards, and regarding.

In repose.

"Le Chemin de Bibemus," oil on canvas, by Apryl Anderson.

The artist and her work!

Here are links to check out if you're interested in the art we saw, the wine we drank, the music we listened to, or the restaurant we ate in:

Dan Coyle's music: http://dancoyle.com

Apryl Anderson's art: http://www.aprylza.com

Wine in Provence: http://wineinprovence.com

L'Oustau de St. Marc: http://www.oustausaintmarc.com

Paris: From Hostel Hell to Hemingway's Heaven

Eiffel Tower baby!

You probably remember from this post and this post that I've been regularly guest-blogging for the terrific travel site Spotted By Locals. Definitely check out their website if you plan on traveling to any major European city: they've got suggestions from natives and locals about all the best spots to hit whether you're dying for Mexican food in Berlin, want an authentic Danish brunch in Copenhagen, or just want to hear some free music in Amsterdam. 

My latest post for them was about Paris and the insanely wretched hostel I stayed in during a short trip back in 2005. Here's a little snippet:

"Having taken the TGV from Aix-en-Provence, I arrived at the Gare de Lyon with no plans and no place to stay. I wandered the streets for hours with my little duffle bag hoisted on my shoulders like a backpack, both enchanted with the beautiful churches and nervous that I would find myself sleeping in one of their pews. Finally, exhausted, I hailed a taxi to take me back to the station, thinking that at least I could sleep there for the night and try again in the morning to find a room. But the driver and I got to talking and so I described my plight to him, and he dropped me off at a hostel he recommended . . ."

Read the rest of the article here: Paris: From Hostel Hell to Hemingway's Heaven. 

Top of the Rock: Montagne Sainte Victoire

Jubilant!

Mountains do such an incredible thing to the human spirit. Many times I started writing, and in an effort to capture the grandeur of the mountain and the joy of the climb, wrote something along the lines of, "The gray cliffs of Mt. Sainte Victoire rise high above all Provence, a staggering reminder of Man's infinitesimal place in the grand scheme of the world's order." Oi. Overblown and cliché to the max.

Mt. Sainte Victoire from a distance. 

But the thing about mountains is this: those exaggerated banalities are all true. They stand there, quietly reaping time, providing a goal for us to work for, the guarantee of some higher place in the clouds. The cliff's view over what the rest of what humanity has wrought is worth the blistered heels, the sunburn, the brambles pricking through your jeans and jabbing at your skin. 

The limestone cliffs and bright red clay
of Sainte Victoire.

I'm not a serious mountain climber. I don't have trekking poles or harnesses or carabineers or even proper boots - hell, I did this hike in my Keds. But it's easy for me to understand the need to climb ever-higher, conquering bigger and bigger mountains, until one day you're standing at the top of Mount Everest with no feelings in your limbs and continuously blackening fingertips heavy with frostbite and a tiny sherpa man who wants to give you oxygen but you're too busy staring out at the vast stretch of the Himalayan landscape because you. Are. EXULTANT.

And that's what mountains do to us: they make us happy.

Resting on a boulder.

Purple flowers. 

And yellow flowers.

Dan playing "Where's Waldo?" with the shrubbery.

Cliffside views.

Breezy hair, breezy climb.