I'm starting this post from a chain bakery in Toulouse, France. Brioche Dorée. I need WiFi and a place to sit in relative warmth until this stubbornly frigid city decides to warm up a bit. So I unenthusiastically paid a more than average price for less than average tasting pastries.
And I'm trying not to feel bad about it.
I'm reluctantly adapting to being alone again. To sitting by myself at cafes. To making my own decisions without bouncing them off another brain. To being one-on-one with couchsurfing hosts.
Stop wishing you had a friend. It's not going to change anything, and you'll spend every picnic thinking, "this is great... but it would be better with company."
Even alone, I love lingering at cafes. Watching people come and go. At the table for two in front of me, a wrinkled old man with fabulous facial hair sat hunched over a newspaper. But he wiped his hands, put his tray on the trash can and stuffed his newspaper into an old leather shoulder bag. Now, two stylish young women with dark hair, black shirts and grey scarves sip their coffee and speak French. Quickly. I can barely catch a word of what they're saying.
It's been a cold day. A long day. An introverted, heartbreakingly numb day. I wandered through the famous "Pink City" of Toulouse, but everything felt bland. My fingers withdrew inside my sleeves to escape the cold and my mind seemed to withdraw from my body to escape all the sad.
Not that sadness is a bad thing to feel, Bourget. You. Can. Be. Sad.
My
first couchsurfing host since parting ways with Bulgarian didn't help much.
With my loneliness and uncertainly about returning to my solo traveling lifestyle. I'm a human chameleon, but adapting to fit someone's home and habits
takes effort. And it took a lot of effort to fit into Paella McTapas' life.
"Push
the toilet flush less than one second, see?" he instructed. Then went
on to give me a five minute tutorial on how to use the shower. Including
which side to enter, which side to exit, how to hold up the shower
curtain with a clothespin, etc. He also moved Fat Ellie away from the
door because he was afraid she would... hurt the door?
I mean... I know Fat Elie has put on a kilo or two, but she's not a destroyer of doors.
We
had a brief conversation that night, and then Paella McTapas went to bed,
telling me that I could take a shower at seven in the morning. No
earlier, because he needed to sleep and my bumbling about in the
bathroom would wake him. No later, because we both needed to leave the
tiny flat at seven forty. Paella McTapas started work at eight o'clock,
and he did not trust couchsurfers in his flat without him.
People who think that travel = freedom ought to try surfing with this guy. Sheesh.
As
a traveler, I have the big freedoms about which many people fantasize. I
can pack up Fat Ellie and fly to Nepal on a whim. I can spend days in
parks, cafes, mountains, lost in books. I don't have to check in with an
employer to ask for days off.
I just take them. Because my days belong to me.
But in gaining the big freedoms, I lose the little ones. The less glamorous ones, but the more grounding.
Choosing the time I shower, for instance.
I'm
about ready to exchange these freedoms, if only for a while. I've been
on the road for eleven months and have visited twenty-two countries on
this trip alone. I've stayed in countless homes, all with their
own rules and routines. And as a guest, it is my job to work with what
I'm given. Shoes off, shoes on, smoking, no smoking, keys, no keys,
quiet hours, NOISE ALL THE TIME.
Misho noticed that I'm very forgetful (not only with Bulgarian. Just especially with
Bulgarian). I forget nearly all the things I say and about 50% of the
things people say to me (although this is somewhat selective. I forget
100% of video games and Bulgarian. I remember things that make me laugh.
Cry. Get pissed. I remember these forever).
I wonder if I've become so forgetful because I'm constantly remembering rules.
At
Francesco's, double check that you've closed the toilet lid. At
Diarmuid's, don't shower on days you cook. At Martin's, make sure to
stay out of the living room in the morning because Helen is giving
massages. At Maris', make sure that the hose from the washing machine is
in the toilet. So you don't flood the bathroom. Like an idiot.
I
think I'm ready to have my little freedoms back. To have a few of my
own rules. Then I wouldn't have to spend eleven hours in a freezing city
without anywhere to go as I wait for my host to return. That's another
problem of traveling on a budget. If I had more money, I could just pop
in and out of cafes all day, exploring until I get too cold and then
warming up with a coffee. But I can't afford that. My only option is to
sit here until the barista's stink-eye becomes unbearable, and then face
the cold.
I relinquished my seat at Brioche Dorée at eleven o'clock.
Okay. So, I have to spend another seven and a half hours in the cold. Here we go.
I blew onto my red fingers, stiff with cold.
If the weather wasn't so comprehensively shitty, I wouldn't mind today at all.
I mean... maybe I would mind it a little. Even for the introvert I am, eleven hours without interaction is a bit excessive.
Toulouse is the fourth largest city in France, and is famous for aerospace industry and its terracotta bricks.
It's a beautiful, unique city, but I felt to cold and lonely to really appreciate it.
I would rather have sipped hot chocolate on a couch with a good book than visit Toulous' churches and cathedrals.
I hope I work through this funk soon, I thought as I haplessly snapped photos of what I supposed I'd find beautiful in a day or two.
I bought picnic supplies at a Carrefour and spread out my sarong in Jardin des Plantes.
This might be the most beautiful park I've visited.
The grass is so soft... and no cigarette butts or beer caps wedged into the dirt.
If only the sun would come out...
I shivered and shook, goosebumps spreading across my skin under my flimsy sweater.
It's... four o'clock. Only two and a half more hours, Bourget. Then you can get warm.
I wish I had a buddy.
I'm such a whiner. Holy bananas. But days like these... days like these are the ones wherein I really need a friend. If nothing else, to help me admire this city. Because my own eyes are so dull. Cloudy. Absent. I'll be fine in a few days, I'm sure... but right now, I really needed a host who would engage... keep me from retreating into myself. And I got Paella McTapas. Who just showed me how to not get water on the floor when I showered at exactly seven in the morning, and then kicked me out at seven forty.
I gratefully began the long walk back at around five thirty.
Ellie was already packed and ready to go, so I thanked McTapas, grunted my way into Ellie's straps and walked to my new host's home.
Why did he even host me? He invited me, for pete's sake. If he was going to spend more time telling me how to use the shower than engaging, why did he ask me to stay in his flat?
Please. Please, be more engaging. Please have a HOME. Please have pictures on the walls. Please let me relax in your space. Don't make me feel like a burden or an inconvenience... I silently prayed as I rang the bell.
Delphine answered the door, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The petite woman had the most radiant, welcoming smile, and I immediately felt at ease.
Thank god.
I kissed her twice and thanked her for having me. Then Delphine showed me to my room.
My room.
I'd be sleeping in their lovely office. On a futon.
Which are the absolute best. Futons. I can curl up in the corner like a cat.
Delphine and her boyfriend, a firefighter named Chris, took me into Toulouse by night. The lights, the atmosphere, the bars.
And I finally saw the city. And it was magical.
Delphine and Chris went to work early the next morning, but they spent a few minutes the night before helping me feel at home. Chris showed me how to work the coffee machine and made sure there was enough water in the fridge for me. They gave me a spare set of keys and told me to stay as long as I liked.
This is what I needed, I lovingly gazed at my cozy bed before slipping under the covers. Thank god for Delphine and Chris.
I spent the next morning writing. Coffeeing. Secluding myself in the warmth of the office and catching up on blogs from way back when. Because I was finally reunited with my long-lost laptop charger.
So. Now you see how much you can remember. You, the one who is always forgetting everything. Except to close the toilet lid at Francesco's.
Delphine came back from work early afternoon and took me cycling around Toulouse.
I made risotto for Chris, Delphine and a friend of theirs that evening. Then they went out for drinks, and I went to bed.
I just... I can't afford drinks. Not on a vagabond budget. And it can be so hard to communicate that to people who have steady jobs and a drink out is just an afterthought.
So before turning out the lights, I updated my couchsurfing profile to include the following:
"When I surf, I love to cook with/for my hosts. However, something that's important to note is that since I'm a longterm traveler, it is not in my budget to go out for drinks/meals. I'd be happy to buy a bottle of wine to share at your home, though! And I'm always game to meet up for a coffee. As long as you don't live in Iceland or Switzerland, where a coffee costs like, five euros. :P "
That should do it, I snuggled up into the corner of the futon and drifted off into a happy sleep.
Delphine's family arrived the next day at four pm to celebrate Chris' thirtieth birthday. After eating cake, we all went into the courtyard to play a game wherein you stand behind a line and throw a stick at other sticks.
 |
| I loved this fellow. He was the great retriever of sticks. Whenever I threw the stick, he promptly brought it back. I want to borrow him whenever I play stick throwing games. So once every seven years. |
Because I'm about as good at throwing things as I am at opening doors. Which is... err... not very good.
We packed up the littles, put on our coats and headed down to the racetrack. Delphine had bought Chris and her brother-in-law a couple of bets to place on the horses, so we braved the cold to watch these leggy fellows run and hop around a steeplechase course.
Delphine, Chris and I played cards that night. And showed each other photos from our trips. And had one of the exchanges that makes couchsurfing so valuable.
I'll be sad to leave them tomorrow. Them and that gorgeous futon. But... Max. I am VERY excited to meet Max.
I'd planned to stay in Bordeaux with my friend Caroline, a French student I'd met couchsurfing in Inverness with Maris. She lives in the city center and said I could stay with her for my whole five days in Bordeaux.
Perfect.
But then... I received Max' invitation to Bordeaux. And it changed everything. For brevity's sake, I'll only include the last bit of the message.
"So yeah, I can offer you a cool Wine and Cheese dinner party à la française, with a nice corner on the couch for you to give us your best impression of Cinderella if it goes past midnight.
One thing I need to clarify though. You call yourself a cheese lover, which is great. But you merely adopted the cheese. I was born in it, molded by it. I didn't eat anything but cheese until I was already a man.
All jokes apart, whenever someone ask me "do you want more cheese", I always give the same answer. " There's no such thing as too much cheese. In some very, very rare events, there might be barely enough cheese. But never too much." . I once ate 900g of Gorgonzola al Mascarpone (greatest thing in the world) in one sitting, and felt like my life was complete ( I basically was 1% cheese for a glorious day).
Anyway, this invitation is so big you probably won't read it, but I do hope that if you do, you'll be as excited and enthusiastic about meeting me as I am about meeting you !
in the meantime, take care !
Cheers,
Max"
I. Need. To meet this person. Need. Thee is nothing else to be done.
So I wrote Max back, saying --
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