I'm starting this post from the train station in Toulouse. My flixbus dropped me off half an hour ago, and I have another three hours to while away until my couchsurfing host, whose membership name is Paella McTapas, is ready to meet me.
Googlemaps says it takes one hour to walk from the train station to the home of Paella McTapas. Factoring in Fat Ellie and my bum knee, it should take me approximately an hour and twenty minutes to get there.
So I still have to sit in this freezing train station for another... hour and forty minutes before I should start walking. I don't understand why France is so cold right now. If it weren't so miserable outside, I would happily sit by the river or in a park or something. But it's even colder outside than it is in this station. Ain't no way I'm gonna get hypothermia just because train stations are boring and the gypsy girl keeps touching my banana bag and the bloke over at that chain boulangerie is starting to look at me funny.
I am wearing funny pants. My funniest pants. And I have an extensive repertoire of funny pants. In his defense.
Misho left me this morning. We walked out of of our host's door at seven, and I rode the tram with my Bulgarian all the way to the flixbus stop. Misho's bus didn't leave until eight fifteen, but Misho is similar to me in his need to be early, early, early.
Which I approve of.
We arrived at Sabines Station at seven forty-five, found the green sign for flixbus, and then hightailed it to a boulangerie. To escape the drizzle and to share a final breakfast.
I don't want to go back to traveling alone. I know I get to meet couchsurfers and that traveling alone is an incredibly rich experience, but... I don't like having to wait for my bus alone. I don't like having to wait for couchsurfers alone.
I want to share my story. To not feel so... isolated and disjointed.
A green flixbus carried my Bulgarian, in his matching green jacket, away from me and towards Lyon at eight fifteen this morning.
I stood on the pavement and crumpled at all my edges. Just felt like I was collapsing inward.
Like a fucking soufflé. Having Misho around gave me so much. Continuity. Camaraderie. Safety. Someone to laugh with and... well... at. And now I feel like I'm caving in around the hole he left.
I didn't take the tram back to Clem's (our final couchsurfing host in Montpellier). I walked an hour in the rain through the industrial area of the city. I needed time to be with my sadness and iron out some of my crinkles.
What an appropriate drizzle, I thought, as the cold wet started seeping through my sweater, speckling my glasses and blurring the world.
Back at Clem's, I packed Fat Ellie, mindlessly watched some John Oliver and then practiced yoga with Clem for an hour.
It feels good to stretch. To breathe. To feel deeply connected to my body. It helps me remember my wholeness. Every time someone with whom I've really connected leaves... or I leave... I feel so lost and small and powerless. But going through a yoga practice and just being present to myself helps me remember that what I have right here, inside this skin, is enough.
Our time in Montpellier was chaotic and slow and eventful and empty. In other words, it was a clusterfuck. During the course of six days, we stayed with three different hosts in and around the city. Which never really gave us time to unpack. To ground.
We arrived in Montpellier via blabla car on the 20th of April. Our ride, a talkative chap named Xavier (who wants my Bulgarian to move in with him and be his personal cook. But let's face it... who doesn't?) dropped us off at the train station in Montpellier at around noon. Our first host had been rather uncommunicative, and had neither sent us his address nor had given us a time to meet him. He'd only said, "text me when you arrive."
Okay, fair enough.
So I sent Matthieu a text message, saying, "Hey Matthieu! We arrived at Montepellier and are at the train station."
Nothing.
This is one thing I love about hostels. They're straightforward. I know where to go and when to arrive and I appreciate that sort of thing very much indeed. Just waiting for a response... hoping that people get back to you... is so frustrating. But... it's part of couchsurfing. And it's so good for me, in the end. It's so good for me to work on becoming less rigid. More easy-going. More understanding. Giving people the benefit of the doubt. Matthieu probably didn't forget about us and he's not deliberately leaving us hanging.
I bet he's sleeping.
At noon on a Friday.
So I sent our host another text, letting him know that we were just going to mosey on into the city center, and to get in touch when he'd like to meet.
Having unlimited text messages while traveling makes me feel like I somehow cheated the universe and am now winning at life. This is amazing.
Misho and I napped in a park in what Misho calls, "tee-fe-rich". It's a Bulgarian word that means something akin to "speckled shade with a slight breeze when it's not too hot or cold."
I love Bulgaria. A country with one word to describe that situation.
Misho is forever teaching me Bulgarian words. And I am forever forgetting them approximately fifteen seconds after I repeat them back to him.
"You're like a goldfish for Bulgarian," Misho complained.
"My life is so full that I can't remember anything anymore," I protested. "I just don't have any space..."
We napped and people-watched until my understanding/easy-going/benefit of the doubt ran out (that, and I was hot, dehydrated and desperate to pee), so I called Matthieu.
The call went to voicemail.
"Fuck," I exclaimed to my imperturbable Bulgarian. "Why would he say to just text when we arrive and then not answer texts or phone calls?"
He's probably still sleeping, Bourget. At one thirty on a Friday afternoon.
France. Freaking France.
My phone rang. Matthieu had called back to say sorry, he had overslept a bit and would meet us back at the train station in a few minutes. So my Bulgarian and I shouldered our bags and walked back to Gare Saint Roch. And after a few more minutes of waiting, we caught sight of a disheveled young man approaching us. He was walking quite quickly, but somehow managed to make his mad rush look like a lollygag.
I may or may not be about to meet the most laid-back human being in the world.
Matthieu walked us to his flat, which was just a few minutes away from the station. We drank some water, set down our bags and chatted for a bit. The flat was filthy. It reminded me of the apartment I lived in during my final year of university. Ash trays, beer bottles, couches with questionable stains, crumbs covering everything, the lingering smell of marijuana.
Matthieu seems like a nice guy... but I'm glad we're only here two days.
Our host set about collecting beer bottles from the party the night before, and Misho and I went to explore Montpellier, without the burden of our bags.
Montpellier was another city for which I had no expectations. Not a one. I have expectations for Bordeaux because I've heard so much about it. Same with Toulouse and Strasbourg. But Montpellier?
Nada.
And I loved it. The street musicians who seemed to pop up in every pedestrian street or square --
-- the random, perplexing half bicycles that emerged from walls all over the city --
-- the streets so narrow that the sun barely made its way through --
-- the fact that this city park closes its gates at nine, but people just climb the gates and drink beer and smoke marijuana inside anyway --
-- the tram that slowly meanders through the city--
-- the stunning architecture --
-- the free botanical garden with a bamboo forest --
-- the playful graffiti --
-- and the sense of humor.
I started feeling a headache brewing mid-afternoon. I was dehydrated again and worn out from all the walking. So Misho and I turned back to Matthieu's flat, where this brilliant lady drank alcohol instead of water.
And proceeded to get violently ill.
How have I survived to be twenty-seven when I can't even hydrate properly?
I spent the rest of the evening in abject misery, vomiting up the day's picnic and whimpering from my painful headache.
And all of this could have been averted if I'd just had a glass of water instead of alcohol. I. Am. An idiot. That is all.
Blurgh.
The next morning was slow. I plopped myself onto the questionable cushions of Mathieu's living room couch, and as the minutes ticked by, I gradually began to feel less like death. I drank not-alcohol and blearily watched Misho and Matthieu play a video game. Zelda. Which, again, means nothing to me.
By mid-afternoon, I was feeling decent enough to walk around the city with Misho.
We hung out in parks, ate cheese and I read to my friend Misho from American Gods.
I could read aloud to people all day. ALL DAY. If everything else fails with my life, I will get a job reading to small children at libraries. And I will be the happiest of ladies.
I made an Aimee style Spanish omelette for dinner that night (okay, I do make dishes besides risotto), which involved cheese and chorizo and bell peppers. Then Misho and I drank wine and watched Secret of Kells on the questionable couch while Matthieu was out drinking with friends. He'd invited us to join, but alcohol out is expensive in France. And when one is trying to keep a budget of six or seven euros a day, one drink out means not eating that day.
So I excused myself, saying I was still too tired from being sick the night before. And Misho excused himself, saying he'd like to stay in with me.
We were supposed to leave Matthieu's the next day, meeting our second host at seven thirty pm in front of a theatre not too far away. But at seven thirty, we had yet to receive a text message.
What is it with all these French people not texting when they say they will?
At eight fifteen, I finally received a text saying, "Hey! did u have smthg in mind 4 tonite?"
"No, not really. We just finished eating dinner with our host. Misho and I don't really have it in our budget to go to pubs and such, so we usually have quiet nights. Hope that's okay. How was the film?"
"There's a dance show in half an hour in a park. It's free. Wd u b interested? I wd drive u home afterwards."
"Sure! Where is it?"
"Can u meet me in 10 min?"
THAT. Does not answer my question. Also, there is no way I'm going anywhere in ten minutes with my bum knee and Fat Ellie.
"Ten minutes might be pushing it... Might be closer to twenty. Where would we meet you?"
"Will miss the show if I wait 20 min :("
Again. That does not answer my question. WHERE? Where is this mystery park?
"Can we just meet you at the park? Where are you now? At Diagonal Theatre?"
...nothing.
She really doesn't want us to know where she is.
"If you miss the show waiting for us, we could just meet you after the show, if you want. Whatever works best for you is okay."
"Sure. It's a bit far though if u walk."
"Which park is it?"
...nothing.
I don't think the park even exists.
"Hey Ann, if the park is too far away and the tram is only half an hour at night, would it be okay if we just stayed here one more night and met with you tomorrow? Since it's getting late anyway, that just seems to make more sense. What do you think?
"Sure, whatever suits u best."
What a remarkably frustrating, vague interaction.
So Misho and I spent the next day in Montpellier with Matthieu. We went to a market, where Matthieu picked up a bag of snails and asked, "Do you like these?"
"No," I responded honestly. I've tried snails. And I do not like them. I do not understand why people insist on eating them. No one says that snails are good. Not even French people. They say that the sauce is good. To which I say, "well, why not put something good in good sauce, not something as questionable as Matthieu's couch?"
But Matthieu bought them anyway. And we ate snails, duck breast and aligot for lunch. And drank a gorgeous wine.
After asking Ann three different for a time and a place to meet her, we finally settled on seven o'clock at the corner of Square Planchon.
THANK GOD. Why? Why was that so hard?
Ann ended up being a spry, energetic woman who seemed to operate at seven thousand miles per hour. She'd wanted to host me because I'm a yoga teacher, and she was interested in learning a bit of acro.
She's so small, so it would be easy to hold her. But I doubt she'd trust me. I doubt she'd be able to relax, I thought, observing the woman's frenetic energy.
Back at Ann's home in Saint-Jean-de-Vedas, we took off our shoes and gingerly placed our bags in the corner of her spotless flat.
"Did you eat dinner?"
"No, but we brought yogurt and bananas."
"Do you want something else?"
"If you have it, that would be great, but absolutely no pressure to feed us. We're happy with the yogurt and bananas."
So Ann threw a bag of frozen rice into a wok for dinner that night.
For lunch, snails and duck and potatoes and wine. For dinner, reheated frozen rice. My poor belly has given up on expecting anything. It is a "come what may" kind of belly.
We played an evil card game called Mao until poor Misho was too frustrated to play any longer (it's an especially evil game). Then we went to bed. I'd hoped to check couchsurfing on my phone to see if Clem had messaged me about anything, but there didn't seem to be any wifi in Ann's cozy little flat.
It's amazing how grateful I am to be in a clean home. After only three days living in a flat with the questionable couches. I like a little bit of mess... the "this home is lived in" kind of mess. But that... that was a lot of mess.
We met Ann's friend, an Irish chap named Liam, at a nearby park the next day for some acro yoga. And it felt so good to practice again. I sent Liam into twists and spins and balanced him on my shins. And reconnected with the playful side of me that loves to teach, to trust, to invite another person to share a moment of silliness.
When my legs were finally too worn out to continue basing, Liam cycled off to procure picnic supplies. And we blissfully picnicked on the grass in the sunshine in Saint-Jean-de-Vedas.
"Is there a cafe I can use for wifi before we go?" I asked Ann when we returned to her flat. "I checked, and you don't seem to have wifi here. Is that right?"
"No, I have wifi. I just don't leave it on because I don't like the waves."
"Oh."
Why are all yoga people crazy?
We took the tram back into Montpellier at five that evening, as we were to meet our final host at six.
One day was enough with Ann. I'm glad I met her and it was wonderful to get to play in the park, but gosh. That woman is too intense for even ME to handle. Holy bananas.
Clem arrived just after Misho and me. He was a bright-eyed, well-dressed musician who built eco-friendly homes out of lime by the sea. Like Ann, he'd invited Misho and me to stay with him because he wanted to try a bit of yoga, but Clem didn't appear to be nearly as... disconnected as our previous host.
Someone who wants to learn yoga and isn't nuts. What an anomaly.
Clem had a bit of housework to do the next day, so Misho and I wandered around the city by ourselves.
Our last full day in France.
Clem threw a party that night. He invited a few friends, made some shrimp, poured the wine and let the fun unfold.
I love that this last evening together is a party. But it feels so bittersweet. I want to just enjoy all these lovely people, but I can't help but think about how I'm going to feel tomorrow. When it's just me and Fat Ellie and Paella McTapas.
Come what may, Bourget. That is the story of your belly and your life. Misho is leaving you tomorrow. But he's leaving a beautiful footprint in your life. He created a chapter you'll always remember with an eye-roll and a happy laugh. So be thankful for that. Let your badass baker go back to Bulgaria. And be receptive to whatever comes next.
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