The only way we can make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and enjoy the dance.
~Alan Watts
Tuesday. Final morning in my loft. I took one last shower in my private bathroom, appreciating that I knew exactly how this shower worked (European showers are complicated and I seem to have a uniquely difficult time opening doors and making showers work) and the warmth of the enormous fluffy white towel (as opposed to my lightweight REI variety). I brushed my teeth, donned my contact lenses, and put my toiletries in my plum colored backpack.
I scanned the room several times for errant adapters or chargers, even though I knew full well that everything had been packed. A childish, whimsical part of me wanted there to be something I had missed. Something that would keep me bouncing up the flights of stairs to check in the cupboards or beneath the bed just one more time. Something to make Charlotte slam her foot on the brakes and turn the car around for, "I forgot my passport!" or "I forgot my debit card!" or "I forgot my laptop!"(I figured that "I forgot my toothbrush" might not cut it).
However, I didn't manage to forget anything (except a pair of polka dot underwear, for which I apologize), and after reluctant goodbyes to Jack, Harry, Violet, Oscar, and Lucy, I climbed into the Honda with Charlotte and watched the house that had become a home disappear through the grey walls and green hedge.
"I feel like I'm saying goodbye to a friend today," Charlotte said as I finished the hat I'd been knitting her out of some of her grandmother's old yarn.
"I feel the same," I snapped the yarn and gave the short end a sharp tug, lending the hat its shape. "A hat for you. All my childhood friends have hats I made for them. However, I used to be absolutely dreadful at knitting -- decreasing and increasing stitches was way too complicated for me -- so the finished product never fit properly. They'd droop over the sides of the head like mushrooms and made the wearer look unbelievably silly. So we called them "dopey shrooms". Here is your dopey shroom. I hope it fits better than the ones I made as a kid."
We arrived at the Oxford bus station about 20 minutes before my bus was due to leave, but encountered frustrating difficulties right off the bat. I had ordered my ticket online with National Express (which I don't recommend doing) and I had failed to see my reference numbers on the confirmation email (which is my own damn fault). However, the National Express employees were astonishingly unhelpful, abrupt and rude, and I nearly missed my bus (which would have been a loss of almost 50 dollars). They refused to let me just use my name and passport as proof of purchase and resolutely required that I produce my reference number -- without offering me any alternative or help in the process.
After about ten frantic minutes of faulty internet on Charlotte's iPhone, we managed to produce the reference number. Five minutes before my bus departed.
"See, you're just fine. You've even got five minutes to spare," the distracted young man working the National Express was decidedly not apologetic.
"Yeah, but I generally prefer to operate a bit ahead of deadlines and things. I'm not one to appreciate the adrenaline of last moment mishaps," I gingerly rubbed my temples and softened my forehead, sensing the oncoming headache and attempting to soothe my nerves.
The dedicated employee shrugged his shoulders dismissively and I triumphantly waved my ticket for Charlotte to see, breathing a sigh of relief and thanking her for the use of her phone. After promising to keep in touch, I hugged my friend goodbye and boarded the bus. It was 9:15, my bags were loaded, I was securely buckled into my seat, and the National Express coach strained to a start as we rolled off towards Gatwick Airport North Termnial.
What a wonderful experience that was. Not dealing with the inane chap behind the counter -- the entire month in England. What a spectacular group of welcoming people. I slipped so easily into their lives I didn't even realize it was happening.
I didn't sleep on the bus. I hardly read on the bus. I mostly looked out the window on the bus.
It was 10:30 and the weather was soft.
It was 11:00 and the houses were brick with grass and moss and ivy growing out of the crooks and crannies.
It was 11:30 and the wheels on the bus went round and round.
It was 12:00 and the chaos of London drowned my senses in red brake lights, exhaust fumes, and traffic sounds.
It was 12:15 and I heard, "Gatwick Airport North Termnial" boom over the staticky bus loudspeakers.
Since I'd printed off my ticket, I only needed to drop off my checked in luggage and then head through security. I assumed this would be a speedy ordeal as it didn't involve checking in personally, but the EasyJet line was massive. I spent nigh thirty minutes in that circuitous queue, listening to half of a vacuous phone conversation.
"Well, if she doesn't want people to think she's smart, she shouldn't act smart. I mean, if you're going to like, go to Oxford, um, yeah. You should expect people to treat you like you're smart. She doesn't have to be smart. I think she, like, likes the attention. Is all. Babe? I hafta go, babe. I'm like, literally next in the queue. Literally. Um, yeah. Love you, babe. I'll ring you back in a minute."
I started to think that not being able to eavesdrop in a foreign country wouldn't be such a terrible thing. I was literally about to smash my head against a hard surface by the end of that thirty minute slog. But that would have caused a scene, and scenes are usually frowned upon in airports. Also, although bashing my head against the counter would have given me great momentary relief, it would not have been the most productive measure to take in mitigating my burgeoning headache.
A spry fellow with tufts of white hair clinging to the sides of his head and poking out of his ears like feather dusters motioned me over to his counter. I approached quickly and apprehensively, flourishing my boarding pass and passport as signs of peace and preparedness. In my experience, airport employees are brusque, unhelpful, and generally all-around impolite. If your quandary does not fall precisely under their jurisdiction, they'll curtly send you somewhere else. Otherwise, they'll just ignore you until you feel stupid enough to wander off of your own accord. I've become much more cautious since my experience in Ireland, so when it comes to dealing with anyone who might potentially put me on the next plane to Philadelphia, I am overly prepared.
"And where are you heading to?" the feather duster man asked as he flipped open my passport to the picture of me that doesn't look like me at all.
"Nice," I responded, lower lip quavering. I hadn't anticipated to be asked such questions until actually arriving in Nice.
"It's cold over there, then?" he tilted his shiny head towards my thick sweater.
"Nah, I'm just wearing it so I don't have to pack it."
"Ah, and I bet you're wearing five shirts and two pairs of trousers as well," his eyes twinkled.
"No, just three shirts," I replied, caught off guard by his sense of humor. "And my heaviest pair of trousers."
"And what's that?" he motioned to a blinking red light in my checked in bag.
"Oh my goodness!" I freaked out, well aware of what a blinking red light might do to me in an airport. "It's my bike light," I held out the perpetrator for inspection. "I'll put it in my carry-on so it doesn't go off."
"You could do," he smiled knowingly, deep lines crinkling his forehead. This backpack will have to go into the oversize luggage, though. All those straps will interfere with the other bags. See that yellow sign right over there? Yes? All you have to do is drop it off and they'll take care of it from there. You're much stronger than me," he complimented as I swung the pack onto my right shoulder. "Enjoy your flight."
I made it through security in record time (for a good sized terminal, anyway). For those of you who are planning trips to England, I hear that Heathrow is a miserable, crowded and inefficient airport. Gatwick was actually efficient, easy, and the people who work there smile, if only occasionally.
It was 12:45 and I was through security.
It was 12:55 and my headache intensified.
It was 13:05 and I realized that I wouldn't be able to see my gate number on the screens until 15 minutes before the gate closed.
WHY? What do they hope to accomplish by making everyone rush to their gates last minute like herds of panicked buffalo all galloping in different directions?
So I plopped myself down in front of one of the screens and I waited. The space behind my left eye pounded rhythmically and the eye itself felt like it was on fire.
Why did I let the whole bus ticket thing get to me like this? God, I need to not get so stressed when I move from place to place. I'm good at adapting to new situations and living with strangers, but the travel part of travel makes me anxious and sick. Bah.
It was 13:30 and my stomach started to rumble. And rumble. And RUMBLE. The kippers I'd eaten for breakfast were finally wearing off, and my empty stomach was rapidly filling up with a tornado of angry gas. I tried to stretch out on the rigid terminal chair to give the tornado more room in hopes of diluting its rage, but stretching merely served to waft the gas into my ribcage.
I hate airports. Torture devices on a grand scale, that's what they are. I very reasonably blamed an entirely unrelated entity for my painful belly rumbling.
It was 13:40 and I glued the eye that wasn't in agonizing pain to the flight information for departure EasyJet to Nice at 14:25. Where are you, gate number? WHERE?
It was 13:41 and EasyJet to Nice at 14:25 had no gate. I glared at the screen and fidgeted my feet.
It was 13:45 and EasyJet to Nice at 14:25 had no gate. I glared at the screen, fidgeted my feet, and checked the flight information on my ticket for the umpteenth time.
It was 13:46 and EasyJet to Nice at 14:25 was taking off from gate 109. I grabbed my Sierra Designs rolling bag, tightened the straps of my Osprey, and dove into the herd of panicked buffalo.
It was 13:54 and after sprinting like a madwoman, weaving in and out of passengers with short skirts, long skirts, short pants, long pants, short strides, long strides, backpacks and rolling bags (imagine an eel through a school of tuna fish), I found myself near the head of the line at gate 109. Which turned out to be a very good thing, because shortly after my ticket had been scanned, the scanner decided it had had enough for that day, thank-you very much. The rest of the disgruntled passengers had to be checked in manually while I was sitting (somewhat) comfortably in my designated seat and reading fantasy on my kindle. Win.
It was much later than 14:25 when the last of the injured passengers finally sat down, buckled up, and the plane began to roll down the runway.
Another two hours of limbo.
I dislike the stress and chaos and last minute nature of boarding buses, trains and planes, but I adore the moment of takeoff and the time that transpires between departure and arrival. It's freedom. There's nothing I can do but sit in my seat. Thoughts like, "I should turn the washing machine on," "I should tidy the kitchen before there are no utensils left," and "I want bacon. I'm going to make bacon happen," don't really have a place in transit. There's nothing to do but wait until you arrive.
I like the period of waiting nearly as much as I like early mornings. Both are generally productive and thoughtful times for me because I don't feel stress to be doing anything. And when there's no stress as to what I should be doing, I often find myself doing the things that I truly need the most.
In the limbo between London and Nice, I thought about the pros and cons of excitement. My experience in Ireland had taught me that too much enthusiastic anticipation could be a very negative thing indeed. I had been looking forward to staying with George for nearly a year, and that situation went helter-skelter, higgledly-piggledly horribly wrong. I had been looking forward to staying with my Irish friend for nearly a year, and that never happened at all. All the other cancellations in Germany and Italy have made me very cautious about getting attached to the idea of something actually happening and of it being good if/when it happens.
I had been looking forward to staying with Baris for a very long time, and I was all too eager for it to happen and for the experience to be a positive one. But because I had been so let down in the past, I did my best to remain nonchalant and reserved. I thought of all the plan Bs, Cs, and Ds so that PLAN A wouldn't root so firmly in my dreams that I couldn't dream of anything else, should PLAN A turn out to be something unpleasant or unrealistic.
But I don't want to let go of my excitement. I don't want to abstain from feeling the tingle of anticipation. I don't want to turn blasé and not appreciate the beauty in my life because I'm too afraid of becoming attached. I don't want to lose motivation because I've quelled my effervescent sense of adventure.
But I don't want to go flat like a soda left open in the sun when my dreams morph into something ugly and unexpected or disappear altogether. Going flat makes me feel out of control, lost, defeated and humiliated.
It's a complicated line to walk. I think it's something we all have to learn, and I'm learning it right now, boy howdy. Every day is a new test.
How can I let today unfold with excitement and appreciation but without attachment or anticipation?
It was 17:15 and my plane landed. I left limbo behind as I breezed through immigration (thank GOD) and into the terminal to collect my backpack. Baris had asked me to meet him at bus 98 a few minutes after 17:15. I knew that bus 98 had a stop right outside of Terminal 2, but I still kept his number and address in my pocket, should anything go amiss. Numbers such as these make me feel safe.
It only took me a few minutes and a few questions at information to find bus 98, so I sat down on my luggage in front of the stop and waited. I noticed someone speaking English on his smartphone a few feet away from me, pretty wife and cute son cuddled up close to him.
It was 17:35 and I took out my kindle.
He'll be here soon.
It was 17:45 and I read the same page for the fourth time.
He'll be here soon. He told me he'd meet me at the airport.
It was 17:55 and I flicked off my kindle and looked around nervously, fingering his address in my purse.
He'll be here soon. He told me he'd meet me at the airport. Maybe... maybe I accidentally told him the wrong terminal. Maybe there's another bus stop that I don't know about.
It was 18:05 and I decided to be proactive.
"Excuse me," I asked the fellow I'd overheard on the phone earlier. "Would it be okay if I borrowed your phone? My friend was supposed to meet me here, but I'm nervous that I might have told him the wrong terminal."
"Of course!" the family man answered in an accent I couldn't place as his partner flashed me an understanding smile.
It was 18:07 and Baris didn't answer his phone. The tornado hit my gut again and my forehead throbbed. I left a message, telling Baris of my whereabouts and handed the phone back to the generous foreigner waiting for bus 99.
"Thanks so much!"
It was 18:10. I walked back to my suitcase and sat down.
At least he knows where I am. He'll be here soon. It's Baris. He'll be here soon.
It was 18:15 and Baris was there, walking up the road towards bus 98. I lurched to my feet and ran to give him a hug.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," he apologized as he hugged me. "I didn't know the Vespa couldn't come through this area. I drove in circles for half an hour."
"I'm just happy to see you. Thanks for meeting me here," relief washed over me.
"Next time we will just meet in Nice," he continued. "How was this a good plan?"
"It was a nice plan."
Baris took my plum backpack on his Vespa and I took my green bag on bus 98.
"Bonjour! Un billet, s'il vous plaît."
The bus driver smiled at my butchered French, took my six euros and handed me a ticket.
"Merci."
I took a window seat and propped my lime green case against my knees. Nice looked so familiar... the white buildings clumped together next to the azure sea. The people running and ROLLER BLADING on the coast. The old men sitting alone on benches, ankles resting on knees and reading newspapers. I was so happy to be back in southern France that I nearly forgot my tornado.
I pushed the red "arret" button and "Merci, au revoir" descended at stop "Le Port". Where Baris was waiting for me with his sea foam Vespa, lovingly named "Sophia". With a good deal of awkward directions and stop-starting, we made it to his street near the harbor, up five flights of stairs, and to his charming little apartment.
"There is a Russian couchsurfer here for tonight," he said as he unlocked his door.
"Fantastic!" most of me just wanted to collapse on the floor and let the tornado finish ravaging my belly, but I was too happy to be back in Nice and too excited to meet another couchsurfer that I didn't say anything. Per use. I really do love that aspect of couchsurfing. Everything is a surprise and you randomly find yourself meeting phenomenal people from all over the world. The Russian girl was an outgoing blonde photographer who was culminating a summer of traveling through Europe. After exchanging a few stories and tips about the lifestyle of long term travel, the three of us left for the Vielle Ville section of Nice, in search of a good dinner. We stopped at an Italian restaurant and Baris bought me an enormous steak as a "welcome to Nice" and "I'm sorry I was an hour late at the airport" gift. When the server asked "medium", I shook my head and asked for "rare".
"Rare?" the server was surprised.
"Rare?" Baris was surprised.
"Rare," I confirmed. I was thrilled to eat barely seared French steak.
The server left and Baris double-checked with me, "You do know that "rare" in France means "still bleeding"?"
"Thank goodness," I responded, then took the conversation deeper into the realm of bloody meat to wax on about the virtues of steak tartare and boudin noir. Loves that neither Baris nor the Russian understood.
The steak sat on top of my tornado -- which didn't exactly vanquish the storm, but isolated its fury to my lower abdomen. My chest heaved a sigh of relief.
Preconceptions: none today
Challenges: KIPPERS! They were salty and delicious and should probably not be eaten with bacon. So much salt.
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