"I Used to Be Beautiful..." -- Strasbourg, France

My Flixbus arrived in Strasbourg at around six o'clock pm on May 22nd. A young Brazilian chap had agreed to host me for my two nights in the city, and had even offered to meet me at the bus station and walk me home. 

Which is a big deal for this lady. 

Brazilian's couchsurfing profile was mostly empty, but he had about twenty references from guys and girls, so he seemed safe enough. 

Although I don't much like the bit where he says his occupation is "World Traveller." And that he can teach philosophy. People like that tend to be full of themselves. 

"Hello!" I kissed the Bald Brazilian on both cheeks. 

Only three more days of kissing! Woohoo! Then back to handshakes and hugs for two months. 

We began the twenty minute walk back to Brazilian's place, and it immediately became apparent that my host was a talker. Which is fine, as having a host who can happily chat for hours takes the onus off of me, an introvert, to supply discussion topics. 

But still... it does feel a bit frustrating, I thought as he adeptly commandeered one of my few attempts to interject. I don't like the kinds of conversations wherein people walk all over me. Because of a need to be right or say it first or whatever. Seems like a battle, not a connection.

Bald Brazilian, who had taken two yoga classes in his life, spent an inordinate amount of time lecturing me, a yoga teacher, about how to practice yoga. 

So, I kept my thoughts inside my head as he blazed on. And on. So... when it comes to love, I feel like it's more important to give what the person needs to receive and not what you, the giver, would like to receive. That feels narcissistic. To assume that everyone wants what you want and needs what you need. And when it comes to teaching, I feel like good teachers a) only teach what they know, and b) only teach what the other person needs to know. I know that two plus two is four, but I'm not going to tell a math professor that two plus two is four. 

I feel like this guy just needs to teach. And he doesn't care whether or not people already know what he wants to share. He's gonna, gotta share it, boy howdy. He'd probably be okay lecturing the Dalai Llama about the benefits of meditation. 

"I used to be beautiful," Bald Brazilian reminisced. "I used to have hair. I was handsome. I would walk into a room and people would stop what they were doing to look at me, and you could tell they were thinking, "this is a handsome guy!" But I'm about to start traveling, and I want to do what's easiest. And having no hair is easier than having hair. So I shaved my head... and now I'm not so handsome. But I am not vain." 

"Yeah, I understand. It's hard to -- "

"I used to be so beautiful..." Bald Brazilian sighed. "But now... now I am not so beautiful... but I am not so vain." 

Yeah. Uh. You said that. 

We dropped off my bags in Bald Brazilian's flat, then walked over to meet some of his friends for snacks and company. What was supposed to be a one hour visit turned into two hours, and the golden sun melted into red behind historic shuttered buildings on one of my two nights in Strasbourg.

I mean... I'm happy to hang out with these people. Bald Brazilian's friends are lovely. Drunk, high and lovely. But... I would have appreciated going out and exploring. Since I'm here for such a short time.

"We should go out," Bald Brazilian said two hours into the stay. Then smoked another joint. And didn't go out.

This is Couchsurfing, I guess. 

Never stay with a "World Traveller/Philosopher" again. They just stay indoors, get high and talk bullshit. 

"We should go out," Bald Brazilian murmured through the haze of smoke. An hour later.

"I'd love to!" I said, leaping to my feet and slipped into a sweater. It was after ten o'clock and this party girl was beginning to fade, but I desperately wanted to see a smidgen of this famous Christmas city before ending my first day.

"I used to be beautiful," Bald Brazilian beat the very dead horse, "but I don't want to focus on my vanity. To be so superficial."

"You know," I spoke quickly as to not be interrupted, "I went through a similar situation. In 2014, I decided to get rid of everything I wore or did simply for my vanity's sake. Because I was curious. I wanted to know who I was outside of that. Who I was on the other side of expectations. This included not shaving my legs or armpits. But for the longest time, I just had to explain my body hair. "Oh, I'm doing this vanity experiment," I would say to my hosts. I would never just allow myself to be. Unexplained. Unjustified. Enough as is. And then I realized that by always telling everyone about my vanity project, I was, in fact, being quite vain. A different, more insidious kind of vanity. I was a vain hippie. And there are few things worse than a vain hippie."

"Yes," Bald Brazilian agreed absent-mindedly. "Now I am not beautiful... I was SO beautiful... but now... now I am not vain at all."

Strasbourg is magical at night. Glowing, yellow light illuminating the river Ill and the ancient wood and stone buildings on its banks.

"This is how Germany looked before the war," Bald Brazilian informed me. Then turned to his GoPro and said something similar in Portuguese for his youtube channel.

We stopped in a small park beside the Ill, and to my chagrin, Bald Brazilian and his friends pulled out yet more beer and rolled more joints.

Well... there goes my chance to explore the city by night.

"Anyone want to try acro yoga?" I cheerfully asked my drunk, high friends.


"I'll try acro yoga!" Bald Brazilian enthusiastically hopped onto my feet. "Make sure you are recording for my youtube channel!" he told one of his friends.

These are the people who make me never want a youtube channel. The people whose real lives begin to revolve around their online lives. 

We played around on the banks of the Ill until midnight. When I finally worked up the gumption to say, "Hey, I'm feeling really tired. Would you show me the way home? I need to go to bed." 

"You're tired?" my host's face dropped.

"Yes. I'm exhausted. I say on my profile that I'm like Cinderella -- I only last until midnight."

"Okay, I'll take you home," Bald Brazilian promised. As he puffed a joint.

...

"Hey, I really am very tired," I irritably interrupted a conversation half an hour later, shoulders slumping and eyelids drooping.

WHY won't people just let me fucking sleep? 

"Let's go," my host stood up. 

YES!

"We're taking a different way back. It's more interesting," Bald Brazilian led me across a wooden bridge, lamplight glistening on the rippling water below.

"That's fine," I sighed, too tired to argue.

All I want is bed, I thought of Bald Brazilian's two cushion couch longingly.

But Bald Brazilian proceeded to lead me on an hour and a half long tour of Strasbourg.

Strasbourg's Notre Dame

It's all beautiful. But this is what I wanted to do three hours ago. Now all I want is bed. And that seems impossible for me to get. 

Bald Brazilian was either blind or deliberately ignoring the fact that I was falling off my feet with fatigue. 

"You have to see the oldest restaurant in Strasbourg. I used to work there and can get us in."

"Uh-huh," I didn't bother with another no.

I'm so glad I only have two nights with this person. Gosh. Is he so focused on how not vain he is that he can't tell that I'm having a horrible time? 

 We explored the restaurant. Which was stunning and unique, but not what I wanted.

I would rather be dreaming right now. 

Finally, Bald Brazilian began to lead me in the direction of home. And the couch. On which I would pass out before my head hit the armrest.

"Have you tried martial arts?" Bald Brazilian asked as we walked the final, empty street.

"When I was a kid. Like, nine or ten. I got a yellow belt in Jiu Jitsu. I liked it back then."

"I've practiced for twelve years," Bald Brazilian demonstrated his prowess with a high kick to a telephone pole.

"Nice."

"Hold out your hands."

I kept my glare inside out and held out my hands.

"Now, try to get away," Bald Brazilian held me firm.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. 

"Now punch me," Bald Brazilian demanded after he'd taught me how to wriggle free.

"No," I finally said, my body beginning to malfunction at the threat of violence. Even violence that I was about to commit to a willing... victim?

"Come on, punch me," Bald Brazilian put my hand on his abs.

"I don't want to," I shrugged my shoulders and withdrew.

"Punch me!"

I reluctantly directed my fist to Bald Brazilian's torso, alarm bells ringing wildly in my head.

"Not like that," Bald Brazilian laughed at my hesitant punch. "Punch me hard."

"No," I insisted, feeling a bit queasy. "I. Don't. Want. To."


"Why not? It won't hurt me," Bald Brazilian rubbed his abs proudly.

"I don't like violence."

"Come on."

"No, I'm not comfortable with that," I turned away definitively.

Do people just not hear me? Is it like I'm not even talking? Does my voice blend in with the breeze?

No. 

No. 

NO. 

...

Nothing.  

"Can I have a blanket?" I asked upon finally stumbling into Bald Brazilian's bedroom.


"Well, I can give you a blanket, but there are three sleeping options," Bald Brazilian started. And I grimaced, knowing exactly where he was going.

"The least preferable option is sleeping on a couch in the living room. It can get very cold in there. The next option would be sleeping on this couch in my room. The best option is sleeping in my bed."

And THERE it is. Fuck. Knew that was coming.

"This couch is fine. As long as I have a blanket," I said, motioning to the couch in his room, which was quite far from his bed.

"My bed really is the best option," Bald Brazilian insisted. "There's plenty of room and I don't move at night."

"I'm sure you don't, but I prefer the couch. Thanks, though," I conjured up my firmest tone possible.

"I think you're making a mistake."

"Maybe I am. But I love couches.

"I wouldn't touch you. In the bed."

"This isn't about you. I just don't like to share beds."

Lesson one of trying to stand up for yourself in a non-aggressive way -- make it all about you. They can't get mad if it's about you. Only frustrated. Don't piss off the guy who just demonstrated his martial arts skills by high kicking a telephone pole. 

"Are you sure you won't sleep in the bed?"


"I am, thanks for the blanket," I grabbed the comforter Bald Brazilian regretfully lobbed in my direction.

Jackass, I thought as I curled up on the couch.

Dawn came early, and I slid into my sandals and strolled down the street towards the Ill. 

I love when unpleasant hosts sleep forever. Gives me some much needed alone time. 

Because even a city as stunning as Strasbourg would be destroyed by Bald Brazilian's incessant "I used to be beautiful!" 
 

Poor guy. Must be so lonely and insecure. Which doesn't excuse him for not respecting my needs and my no. 

But still.  

With great regret, I walked back to the Bald Brazilian's flat at around noon. I'd promised to teach him a vinyasa routine for his youtube channel and to share a bit more acro yoga.

He's going to be NO fun to teach, I thought, remembering past students who would always disrupt the flow to chime in about how their teacher did the pose.

He's going to be like that. Even though he's only taken two classes. He's going to be like that. 

Bald Brazilian took me the long way to Orangerie Parc, recording for YouTube all the while.

Bald Brazilian set up his GoPro, and then I spent a tedious hour sharing a vinyasa routine.

After which, Bald Brazilian noticed that he had forgotten to push "record" on the GoPro. So asked me to do the routine again.

"No," I exhaled. "I don't think so."

Bald Brazilian knew some hippies who were jamming in another park that evening, so we walked down to join them. I stopped at a Carrefour to buy some cider and fruit for myself, and Bald Brazilian asked me to buy him a bag of peanuts. He'd forgotten his wallet, but promised to pay me back (he never did).

At the park, I started chatting with a few of the people who spoke English, and the French version of Cards Against Humanity came up.

"Oh, I played just the other day!" I laughed. "It was so much fun. I think my favorite match was when the black card was 'What do you give blind children to make them feel better?' and the white card I played was 'Candy Crush.'"

The others chuckled, but Bald Brazilian solemnly inserted, "Yes. But the worst kind of blindness is not the physical one."

Are you kidding me? All I want to do is punch him right now -- even though I hate violence -- and ask, "Is the worst punch the physical punch?" 

Blurgh. 

How do I always keep ending up with the crazies? 

I spent two glorious hours practicing acro yoga, watching jugglers and slackliners and listening to accordions and cellos. Then I told my host, "Hey, I need to go home. I'm tired. Can I have the keys? If you call me on whatsapp when you arrive, I can open the door for you and let you in."

Bald Brazilian handed me the keys, and I walked the forty-five minutes home. Thankful that I did not have the "physical blindness" and could enjoy the gorgeous city of Strasbourg by night.

Playing Possum -- Lille, France

This is a difficult post to write. It's difficult because I feel guilty sharing bad experiences when they come mixed with good (which is how most of them come, inconveniently enough). When an experience is all or mostly negative, I feel only a minuscule amount of remorse writing about what went down on a public platform. But when good was involved? 

Including the bad makes me feel ungrateful. Wretched. And a bit like I'm betraying the person who did all the good. 

And maybe I am betraying the person who did all the good. 

But by not including the negative, I'm betraying the people who read this blog as an honest narrative of life on the road as a single lady vagabond. And maybe use it to make decisions. As in, whether or not they want to couchsurf themselves. So I feel an obligation to the ladies who might be reading this blog to include the whole story. 

Blurgh. 

My final couchsurfing host in Lille showed me to his flat a thirty minute walk from the city center.  

"Sit down here," the chap drew a stool in front of the futon. I sat, obediently and apprehensively. He'd mentioned on his couchsurfing profile that he was interested in massage therapy, so I'd expected that massage would rear its increasingly ugly head during my visit... but I'd hoped to have a conversation about whether or not I wanted to give/receive a massage before it occurred. Not just, you know, be ordered onto a stool. 

I want to stand up for myself right now, frustration and self-loathing simmered underneath my frozen skin as my host began rubbing my back. In what may have been with good intentions, but made me feel entirely out of control. 

Because consent wasn't asked for. It was simply expected.  

His hands reached around and touched my collar bones, then moved up to my jaw and the front of my neck. 

It's just a massage, Bourget. Just a massage. 

But that's how those other things started, too. And it's not how they ended.  

Glued to the stool, I imagined fleeing from my body. Consciousness floating up to the ceiling. Staring down in helplessness and disgust. 

Are you shutting down again, Aimee? When will you learn to stand up for yourself instead of just vacating the premises? It's not good for you and it's not good for HIM. If you would just TELL him that you don't want this, he'd probably stop. 

Probably. 

But maybe not. 

Maybe he'd just get angry. 

That's what usually happens. 

And then what?  

"I can show you some things, if you want," I heard myself saying. 

If I'm massaging, at least I'm the one in control. And it's a non-confrontational way of getting out of this. 

So I showed my host a couple of techniques for the shoulders and neck, and then patted his back to end the massage. 

"Can we explore the city a bit? I didn't see much yesterday because it was raining. All day." 

And so Massage Guy showed me around Lille for a couple of hours. And it was lovely. Really, truly lovely.

I just wish the massage hadn't happened. Or that I didn't have such trauma with unsolicited touch. 

We chatted all afternoon, snacked on Belgium chips with heaps of mayonnaise (mayonnaise should only come in heaps) and napped in the rare, fleeting spots of sunshine.

"You like cheese -- " Massage Guy started. 

"I love cheese," I corrected Massage Guy.

"Would you like raclette for dinner?"

"Raclette is amazing. But I really don't have the money to go out to restaurants... not in a vagabond budget. If you want, I can buy a bottle of cheap wine and we can have some Carrefour cheese at home."

"I can invite you, it's no problem for me."

So raclette happened. And it was good. It was more than good. It was staggeringly good.

In the fact that it was delicious and that I had to stagger out of the restaurant.

"I'm so tired," I moaned. "Is it possible to head home now? Before I fall over?"

"No, we're going out," Massage Guy glanced at the time.

It was after eleven.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see. Just don't wear transparent underwear."

WHAT? my brain exploded into fireworks of panic, confusion and irritation. Why would he SAY that? 

"Umm...," I floundered. "Is it important to you that I be there? Because I really am very tired and would like to go to bed. Is it possible to do this thing another day?"

"No, it's only possible tonight."

This. Is why I have a hard time saying no. No gets me absolutely nowhere. So why bother? I wonder where we're going? I hope it's not a club or a bar... I can hardly tolerate that kind of atmosphere under normal circumstances. But being this tired and upset? It would be hell. 

We ended up at a museum. Because it was Lille's "Night at the Museum," where everything was free.

He could have just TOLD me. I would have still been pissed about not being allowed to go to bed, but at least I wouldn't have been nervous. 

"You have to take a shower," Massage Guy told me when we finally stumbled back into his apartment. "It is a requirement."

"Okay," I mumbled and tumbled into the tub.

A shower is required? I mean, I understand that hosts want their guests to be clean, but requiring them to shower before bed every night? 

Whatever, I thought as a drowsily turned on the faucet. I can't be bothered to think about it right now. 

The next day was my birthday. And I woke up to Massage Guy climbing into bed with me and saying, "My girlfriend wouldn't have sex with me, so I came here." 

Umm.... that's not okay. 

But then Massage Guy went out and bought strawberries and pastries and coffee for breakfast. And we had breakfast on my bed in the living room, Massage Guy, his girlfriend and me.

And it was lovely.

I'm so conflicted. 

Next, we went to Lille's famous Sunday Market. It was glorious and colorful and Massage Guy and his girlfriend bought fifty euros worth of cheese. To share at the Lille couchsurfing Sunday brunch.

At the brunch, Massage Guy went around the long, international table and massaged everyone. Which made me feel a little less weird about the "sit here" massage from the day before.

This is just how he is. The massage was nothing personal. Which doesn't change the fact that I let something I wasn't okay with happen, but it does comfort me in some way... I'm not sure why. 

It was the birthday of another couchsurfer as well, and Massage Guy hung a misspelled "Happy Birthday" banner on the wall.

Then he started passing out candles and couchsurfers stabbed them into chucks of cheese.

I giggled in delight.

Best birthday cake ever.

But then the real birthday cake arrived. And Massage Guy dragged me on my chair to the other side of the table and set me down right in front of my gorgeous chocolate cake with candles.

He's doing so much to make my birthday special. And I'm so thankful. 

But at the same time...

I have other feelings. 

And they're hard to reconcile. 

 We spent the afternoon and evening playing games in the park with the other couchsurfers. And I learned a plethora of indecent words, thanks to the French version of "Cards Against Humanity."

All of which I've now forgotten.

These mixed experiences are so difficult for me to process. On one hand, this fellow went well out of his way to make my birthday special. And I never felt unsafe... just... uncomfortable. 

On the other hand... transparent underwear? Not letting me go to bed when I was so tired? 

I love couchsurfing. And I hope to participate in the program as long as I possibly can. But I hate how out of control I can feel. How helpless. How I just play possum and survive. 

What can I learn from this? 

Take "massage therapy" off my list of interests on couchsurfing. People don't need to know that. Brainstorm a way to get out of massages without being too confrontational and without having to tell my whole story. Because when I tell people I don't like massages, they always ask why. 

Which isn't a question I always want to answer. 

Dead Quiet -- Lille, France

I arrived in Lille at about three pm on the eighteenth of May. My host for the following two days wouldn't be able to meet me until five o'clock, so I bumbled into a cafe, bought a shitty cappuccino, and settled down to wait. 

France. You have all the resources to make coffee as nice as Italy. But you don't. Which seems rather belligerent of you. When I order cappuccino here, you either give me scalding milk with a hint of coffee flavor or hot chocolate. Which is not a cappuccino, not matter how adamantly you insist that it is.

WTF, France?  

I glared at my derisively at my defective coffee and then texted Emily, letting my Couchsurfing host know that I'd arrived. 

I cannot. Wait to meet this person, I thought, feeling a bit jittery. But... I'm also nervous. Holy bananas, I haven't been this nervous about meeting a person in a while. She's so awesome and I... I really want her to like me. 

...

Most couchsurfing profiles have bits and pieces that stand out. That make me laugh or resonate with me on a deeper level. 

Emily's profile? 

It made me want to be Emily. 

"I have a cat called Figaro whom you don't call, you sing for." 

Figaro

"I've done a bit of tattoo calligraphy in my wild hooligan past --" 

"I took part in a Viking folk metal band for a few years --" 

Yup. Screw meeting Emily. I want to BE Emily. Please?

So I sipped my contemptible cappuccino and flipped open Shantaram, anticipating that I'd be lingering over the sad excuse for a beverage and my book for the next two hours. 

So much of my life is waiting. It's full of empty spaces. The space before a bus arrives. Before a host can meet me. Before a host comes home from work to let me back inside after a day of wandering. I've become somewhat of an expert at filling the gaps. With writing, knitting, reading, skyping. Some of my happiest, most meaningful moments occur in my "gaps". 

I will never finish this book, I stared in defeat at the 930 pages of Shantaram. I'd read about 600 pages from the front and 30 pages from the back (because I need to know how stressful books end), so I had 300 pages to go.  And even though 300 pages was only a third of the book, 300 pages always feels like forever. 

A figure flashed in front of me and a woman with blond hair sat in the opposite chair. I smiled a little awkwardly and kept reading. 

Wait... there are heaps of tables here. Why would she sit at my table unless...

"Emily?" I asked, embarrassed that it had taken me so long to make the connection. 

She laughed. And told me she'd gotten off work early, so had just come over to collect me. We chatted for a bit, and then moseyed back to her home. Where we dropped off Fat Ellie and Emily offered me tea. Like the proper British woman she is.

I suppose if I can't BE Emily, getting to live with her for two days is the next best thing, I thought, gazing in wonder at my host's teetering mountain of tea boxes. 

"Ready to go?" Emily asked a few minutes later. 

"Sure," I replied, not at all ready to leave my half-drunk tea, but knowing that English lessons would not, could not wait for me to finish my drink. 

Emily is an English teacher at a middle-school, and offers some private lessons on the side. She'd invited me to accompany her on two of her classes that evening, and I was thrilled to get to meet more people. Like the somewhat backwards introvert I am. So I spent an hour talking about Coloradan animals to a precocious teenage girl. Who now knows that "puma" means more than a shoe, "cougar" means more than a middle-aged woman with a penchant for younger fellows, and that "porcupine" and "porc-épic" sound quite similar. 

And I learned that porc-épic is the best animal name of all time ever. Sounds like an epic pig. Which fits porcupine pretty well, and might be what I call them from here on out. 

Emily then whisked me away to the home of a cheerful, curious older couple who wanted to improve their English before retiring to Miami. 

WHY? Why would someone from FRANCE want to retire to the US? I don't understand. 

Final lesson finished, Emily and I opted to walk back to her city center home. We shared stories and she introduced me to some of her favorite bits of Lille. Including Palais Rameau, which was given freely to Lille by Charles Rameau. The one condition was that when Charles died, Lille must forever keep a strawberry plant, a rosebush, a potato plant, a vine, a tomato plant and dahlias growing on his grave. 

 Potatoes? he wanted POTATOES growing on his grave? Least interesting vegetable ever. If I had to pick a vegetable, I'd choose something like an artichoke. 

I'm so judging Rameau's potatoes. I'm a horrible person. 

She also pointed out the random boob hanging under the window of an old bra shop. 

 

"This golden arm points to the most expensive street of Lille."

"When the angels face each other, it means it's the same flat. When the angels are back to back, it means a different flat has started. That's how people could tell from the outside how to do the property taxes." 

Once home, Emily whipped up a dinner for me and her other couchsurfer. We talked about traveling over the rising din from the busy street below. 

"When I was looking for places to live," Emily began, "I found one nice apartment next to a cemetery. But you open the curtains and that's the view. Graves. Now, I like quiet as much as the next person --" 

"Just not "dead" quiet?" I interrupted rather cheekily, and wished Boy could have been there to witness my horrible pun. 

Emily was generous enough to let me stay with her even after the pun incident, so I slept soundly in my own room, relishing the rare privacy offered by a door that closes. 

Yes. I'm a backwards introvert. Or just a masochist. I love privacy so much, but I write an exceedingly personal blog and usually live in people's living rooms. 

We had to abandon the apartment, the cats, and the teetering mountain of tea bright and early, as Emily needed to work (like most normal people) and didn't give perfect strangers the keys to her apartment (which is... also like most normal people). 

I will catch up on my blog today. All of it, I thought, marching through the rain towards the nearest Costa Coffee with grim determination. Costa. You are not my favorite. But at least I don't feel guilty buying your cheapest coffee and then lingering for hours in one of your seats. 

"Hey! Hope your day is going well so far. I thought we'd get smelly cheese and potato pizza tonight, does that sound good? My treat," Emily texted me from work. 

"Haha. I've been hanging out in Costa Coffee writing and reading all morning. Really getting my introvert time. :) but I'm starting to get funny looks from staff, so I should probably change cafes soon... Oh dear. That pizza sounds wonderful. And it's so kind of you to offer. Thanks a bunch, Emily." 

"Reading your blog post about Paella McTapas now and feeling bad because I couldn't give you keys (I only have one set and can't make more because one is apparently some special security key)... and the weather is not nice." 

"Hey, don't feel bad. I get it. It can make days pretty long for me, but I understand that not every host can give a key. Paella McTapas was just extra hard because he didn't even engage me at all... it was weird. I still feel super lucky that I get to stay with you."   

Paella McTapas didn't even care that I was stuck outside in the cold all day. He came home late and didn't apologize. He hardly talked with me. It was 117 percent different. 

But... not being able to take a nap right now is the worst. Maybe... maybe the barista won't notice if I... if I just kind of fold over on the table... I could put my book upright and pretend to be reading it. With my chin on the table. Yeah...

Hobo points. 

I finally left Costa Coffee and scampered through the rain to Starbucks. Where I did the exact same thing for the afternoon. 

Yes. I am the queen of productively filling the waiting time in my life. 

That evening, Emily invited some of her friends to join for pizza and board games.  

These are the best couchsurfing moments. Food, games with random, hilarious people... a cozy kitchen... cats... hooligan calligraphers...

Emily took me and her South African couchsurfer to a park with giant heads covered in shrubbery the next morning.  

She interviewed us for her English students, asking questions about what life is like in the places we call home.

We saw the South African off to the bus station, and then Emily waited for me until my next host arrived.

I'm so bummed that I can't spend my whole four days in Lille with this person. I know that four days is a lot to ask from anyone and I'm grateful for the two days I had with her... but... damn, I hate saying goodbye to people like this.