Dialogue: La belle France? You can stick it!

Looks like France has expelled us, much the same way as Spain, where we cheated death when our train caught on fire. Luckily, though, there are still plenty of options, we've not exhausted all of them yet.

Sure, Nice was nice - lots of fun, picturesque - but that's not reason enough to move in. There are rocks on their shores - I've been spoiled by sand - and you can see too many churches and galleries.

After a while, in confusion, it's all blur, blur, blur so what's the point, then, of even taking a snap?

So my companion, Kate, and I look again for a roost near the sea and, hopefully, not too expensive; although how we ever thought we'd find anything cheap on the French Riviera God only knows.

The antique dealers here, hands flapping, fly at us whenever we dare handle their wares. The ones who admitted us into their stores showed contempt and those who denied us entry could have been done for assault.

Coffee is sucked nearly everywhere and for the price you expect to get good quality - but it isn't. Perhaps I've been spoiled by Ponsonby Rd, by Santos, 39 and Byzantium. Oh, stop it, I'm getting nostalgic for home. How far do deliveries go?

And if anyone was going to find a wealthy benefactor (the only way we could have stayed in France) it would've been Kate. She's gorgeous, clever and funny; every day a new costume from her voluminous bag, a fresh look, a completely new character.

To be honest, the last week has been really hardcore. Only the constant stream of laughs and silliness has stopped us crying or stamping our feet. I wonder sometimes why I left home in the first place if I'm forever in search of another.

However, there is quite a big difference between being lost in Grey Lynn and being lost almost anywhere else.

So I'm hoping, primarily, for a spot to call home - have been looking for nearly two months. All I need is a room so I can get started on "work" that is now a little overdue. The e-mails concerning one script get more frantic but, don't worry guys, I'll be starting tomorrow.

As for Kate, she looks for a place to release the rest of her mother - ashes to ashes, rest in peace, dust to dust. She has not found it, but will know when she's there.

With our respective requirements, we get on train after train and almost all of them seem to malfunction. At each town we alight in the hope of finding a home but so far none has been right. Mostly we find families videoing vacations and eating expensive cuisine.

The little ladies who luncheon, pushing salad round plates, have us tempted to dress up as waitresses so we could clear their tables and pig out on their scraps. But we're still above begging; I don't feel like busking and I'm just a bit scruffy to be kept.

We've been in transit for what feels like too long and would make camp on Mars if railways went there. The station at Marseille, which I was gagging to get to, could possibly offer that option.

There was a near-scene with the metal-detector guy at the door - Kate nearly blew him sky high - but I got her away before she upended her pack, mouthing off at him, giving him heaps.

I managed to diffuse the sticky situation by telling her I was leaving directly: "Bon chance, au revoir, I'll see you whenever" quickly got her attention.

In a fit of escape, I asked the ticket lady when the next train was going to depart. I didn't really care about where.

"Amsterdam," she said, "in less than five minutes." Was that where I wanted to go? Sure, I thought.

Amsterdam, why not? I don't think I've ever been there. Just moments later, visa still warm, I was headed top speed for my platform.

Am I crazy, I wondered, goose-chasing around, not a map or a guidebook to lead me? I tell you all, my head's in a muddle as the train gears up to head off.

It's pulling away and what do we say? See you later, have a nice life, thanks for France? Unable to come up with the appropriate words a situation like this might require, Kate looks at me sadly, about to say bye, then she jumps on the train just in time.

* Contact Elisabeth Easther on her travels at imabroad@chickmail.com.