Coasting through Southern Europe
Travelling through Europe, American Matt Dysart uncovers the delightful intricacies of the Mediterranean during the spring.
After I discovered the study abroad program offered by my school, I told my parents how the world outside Texas (and the rest of the United States) needed to be captured through my writing, and especially how I would pay them back in full no later than a year after my return. Once they bought my pitch, I left my home in the South in search for the best stories this world could offer.
The specific program offered by Baylor University sent me to Maastricht, Netherlands for three months, but I was only enrolled in class for two of them. The last three and a half weeks were given to me to travel anywhere my heart desired… as long as I didn’t leave the continent.
For the majority of those final weeks, I was with a group of three and, by then we had understood the benefits of smaller numbers. It was late March when we all left. Europe was finally warming up. It only makes sense that we would plan to spend two weeks in the coastal Mediterranean.
We walked barefoot in Barcelona, while the locals walked along the beach in their bare everything. Spring always has a way of getting you in touch with the grass again. I don’t know if any of us could remember sweating on our city tours, the cool sea breeze blew most of the humidity away from everyone.
Spaniards, I think, tend to enjoy sweating. Not just on the dance floors until 5a.m., but on their family’s rooftops replacing terra cotta shingles, or in a field tending to crops for a local grocery store. They realise the fruits of their labour far outweigh anything you can get with an American Express card. Sweat can be a beautiful thing, sort of makes you realise what you can do in a given period of time.
The French are a little different. In Avignon, the former dwelling place of the Pope, I noticed a difference between Parisians and the rest of the country’s inhabitants. In Paris, it’s simply the idea of France that brings the crowds – the endless crowds – to the sights familiar to the world. But the southern folk really know how to live; they’re a quiet, peaceful bunch, not as easily aroused by visitors from the West, steadily breathing in the fresh air from the lavender fields just a mile away. In my own time, I leisurely enjoyed a coffee and an éclair, and I easily could have married the girl who served them to me. Some day, maybe.
Along the Riviera in Nice, we finally found the playground of the wealthy. Even the police capitalised on a quick 30€ from us thieving Americans who wouldn’t pay the 1€ tram ticket. Along the pebble beaches (which robbed us from any hope of a sandcastle) we met a couple of Australian girls who had the same sized backpacks as we did, but they were abroad for a whole year, which made us feel just the right amount of insignificant.
The contenders of the French Open stayed at the Hotel Paris in Monaco; that’s probably as close to Federer as I’ll ever get. During a moment in a taxicab, I imagined I grew up go-kart racing next to Ayrton Senna, learning the secrets to a perfect lap in a Formula 1 car, and eventually sharing those streets with the rest of the world’s greatest. I still can’t understand why the States could never fully embrace the worldwide sports.
For the next four days, we explored each of the five landings along Italy’s northeast coast, known as Cinque Terre. Each had its own charm, but none of them brought out the mass of Italian crazies like Rome or Florence. The locals aren’t as skilled at yelling as their big-city relatives, they prefer farming on steep cliffs and fishing in rough waters.
They say the water gets tougher the longer you’re in it, but to us, we hadn’t been fully immersed in anything since maybe the previous summer back in Texas – that’s three months of coats and scarfs, foggy breath and runny noses. Warming up has nowhere near the freedom than that of cooling down. I can’t jump into a fire pit on a snowy day, but I can dive headlong into the cool clarity of the Mediterranean, and then let it drip down my back under the summer sun.
And this still only ranked second on the list of incredible things to happen to me during my time in Europe…
Matt Dysart is a recent graduate of Baylor University, Waco Texas. He has a Bachelor’s degree in English. Matt’s love for genuine literature and poetry lead him to the position of Staff Editor for an on-campus literary magazine and he continues to seek opportunities around the world to develop his writing.
