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.