My blog. I could write my blog... I'm approximately eight million posts behind and will probably catch up NEVER, but... I don't want to do anything. That hit-by-a-truck feeling leaves me very disinclined to, you know, productivity. My only inclination is to remain in bed with the blanket over my head so I can't see how late it is.
My stomach had settled into a resentful calm following my frightful bout of food poisoning, but my body felt drained. Sapped. Like a breeze cold blow me over.
And I have to carry fat fucking Ellie today?
Blurgh.
You chose this life, Bourget. Never forget that.
My alarm sounded at noon, and I grumpily threw off the fluffy blanket and stumbled to my wobbly feet. Drowsily, I scratched the guinea pig goodbye, teetered under the monstrosity that is Fat Ellie, and gingerly made my way down the winding wooden stairs.
Here we go. Back to Paris. I haven't been in Paris since... May of 2012. Five years ago. And it was an interesting experience, but I was also just kind of numb the whole time... having just escaped the luxurious prison my host in Morocco had designed for me. Paris was an in-between. A ten day layover between two months of incessant emotional abuse, and my return to Colorado, an unhappy relationship, and a town with a dense population of ghosts from a past I'd rather not remember.
It was ten days of floating. It didn't even feel real. When I reminisce on travel experiences, I remember colors, feelings, the odd conversation, a particularly good meal, a funny animal --
-- but when I think about my ten days in Paris, I remember feeling disconnected. Like the whole experience was shrouded in mist. Except for the moment in front of the Eiffel tower with Miguel, drinking wine and listening to Sigur Ros for the first time. And my silent tears bursting through the mist. Trying to blame the music for my breakdown, but knowing it went so much deeper.
Although I didn't know how deep, at the time. Those two months... wrought an irrevocable change.
The bus from Amiens had a two hour layover in Rouen, so I sprawled out in the grass and read Shantaram by the river.
"Bonjour," a fellow approached me as I sipped my tea.
"Bonjour," I smiled, then returned to Shantaram.Trying to be polite and assertive at the same time. Which rarely seems to work out for me.
"Ca va?"
"Je ne parle pas français, désolé," I quickly mumbled through my pat response.
"English?" the fellow persisted.
"Yes," I sighed.
"Where you from?"
"Colorado."
"You on... vacation?"
"Sort of."
"Where are you stay?"
"With a friend?"
"You have friends here? In Rouen?"
"Well... sort of," I frowned. Explaining couchsurfing through a language barrier is not easy. "I meet local people and just stay with them."
"Oh. What are you doing now?"
"You want to take lunch with me?"
"Thank-you, but no. My bus comes in twenty minutes," I said rather decisively and returned to my book.
"Okay. Have a nice vacation," the fellow went to join his friends under a nearby tree.
I still get irritated when people ask me out like that.... because he knows nothing at all about me except how I look. But at least he was very polite about it. Superficial, but polite. I can handle that.
I boarded my final bus bound to Paris Maillot, feeling turmoil in my stomach that was entirely unrelated to the mussels from the day before.
This... is affecting me more than I thought it would.
My Flixbus arrived in Paris around seven pm, and I immediately headed towards the nearest metro station. Max's friend lived a good distance from the city center, and there was no way I was gonna walk there with Fat Ellie. After a half hour metro ride, I disembarked at the final stop and walked another twenty minutes to Yohann's apartment.
Tired, dazed, and incredibly grateful to finally be done traveling for the day, I texted Yohann from just outside of his apartment.
"I'm here. :)"
"Where? I don't see you O.o" Yohann texted back.
Damn. Am I at the right place? I must be. I plugged in the directions in both my phones...
"I'm standing in front of 78," I wrote.
"78!! Oh sorry...I gave you my old address ><" the message flashed onto my phone and my heart dropped to around my toes.
"Uh oh... are you close?" I tried to ignore my throbbing shoulders and tired legs and respond like an understanding human being, not like the "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" flustered godzilla I felt like. Because no one likes flustered godzilla.
"Just kidding >. > you can enter! The code is ---- ;)"
...
"Max told you to do that, didn't he?"
"No," Yohann wrote immediately. "He insisted."
Massive relief and a wee bit of anger washed over me.
I am never taking anything Max says seriously ever again.
"Welcome!" Yohann smiled and opened the door on the top floor. "I'm sorry -- Max insisted. I didn't think the prank was a good idea."
"It's okay. I figured it was him almost immediately after you said it was the wrong place," I unceremoniously dropped Ellie onto the floor.
What Max had forgotten to remember when he brilliantly designed his flawed prank, was that Yohann was his childhood friend. And Yohann had epic amounts of dirt about Max. A bona fide mountain range of stories. Which he shared with me with abandon, to compensate for the prank. So Yohann and I spent the evening laughing and chatting, while I texted Max updates on what I was learning about his childhood.
See if he ever pranks me like THAT again. The jerk, I curled up on Yohann's foldout couch, feeling like some manner of balance had been restored to the universe.
I walked for two and a half hours to meet Max at the train station the next day. In my banana bag, I'd crumpled a cardboard sign with the word, "ASSHOLE" written in sharpie.
Can I do that, though? Can I really stand in a train station holding a sign that says asshole? Am I that mean?
Turns out, I'm not that mean.
Part of me wishes I was, though. Maybe one day, I dreamed about my future self as I tossed the sign into the nearest bin.
The next two days in Paris were quiet. Neither Max nor I were enthusiastic about exploring the city, so we just hung out in parks, did a bit of acro yoga, and went to the concert of a youtube artist at a venue in the city (details!).
Max left on an early train the morning after the concert, and I headed to the Porte Maillot a few hours later.
I'm glad I changed my plans and came to the city. Not for the concert or for Paris. But to spend time with a friend whom I hope to have around for a good long while. Even if he sometimes makes me feel like a flustered godzilla and I'm never, EVER going to trust him about meeting me at a place/giving me the right directions/making garlic dip.
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