I'm starting this post from Parc des Beaumont in Montreuil, France. Montreuil is a commune in the eastern suburbs of Paris. And like Paris, I hate it.
The vast metropolis of France's capital city sprawls in front of me, its skyscrapers and apartment blocks visible through windows in the park's lush trees. The dirt path behind where I sit buzzes with activity. Runners. Bikers with dogs. Energetic dogs dragging along lackadaisical bikers. Energetic bikers dragging along lackadaisical dogs. Mums pushing munchkins in baby carriages.
The munchkins do not push the mums in baby carriages.
Pigeons and songbirds flit about in the branches of the trees above me. Cheerful white and yellow marguerites pop out of the blanket of green grass and I callously flick the occasional adventurous ant off of my little black notebook.
I never wanted to return to this city. But here I am. Because Max, my host from Bordeaux, asked me to be here. To attend a concert of his favorite youtube artist with him. And because I like Max and I'm getting into this whole spontaneity thing, I decided to meet him in Paris.
The bastard. Always changing my plans.
I don't hate Paris because I'm one of those pompous hippies who can't be bothered with popular destinations. I don't look at Paris and think, "Mmm... yes, well, Paris it's, well... I suppose it's just too touristic for me, you know? I prefer destinations more... off the beaten path, yes. Obscure. Mmm... Have you ever been to Lesotho? Now there's a destination. It's a country within another country. Mmm... yes. South Africa. Mmm."
Nah. I believe everyone should visit what they want to visit and like what they want to like. When travelers avoid destinations like Venice, Paris and London just because they're "overdone," then they're allowing society to shape them just as much as if they visit Venice, Paris and London because everyone goes to these places. Which makes approximately zero sense to me. Because rebels and conformers both react to something outside of themselves and use this external source to make their decisions. To shape them. So I say, just go where you damn well please, regardless of who is or isn't going there too.
I don't like Paris because it's too busy, too big, too unhappy for me. Every single Parisian I've spoken with hates living in Paris. It's expensive, they forfeit hours upon hours of their lives to the dark, dingy, soul-sucking metro, and it's impersonal. People don't socialize very often in Paris because they don't have time. They're too busy working their asses off to pay for their one thousand euro per month one bedroom apartment.
The only people who seem to like Paris are the selfie stick laden tourists making the peace sign in front of the Louvre.
And it shows. It feels. I can feel when I'm in a city bursting with happy people. They're out laughing, drinking, cavorting. They talk to each other. When you smile, they're more likely to smile back than give you the, "oh, bugger off," look.
Paris. Is frenzied bitterness. Populated by people who left the towns they loved for their career and people who flew in for a picture of the Mona Lisa. And then discovered how small it was in real life.
I arrived in Amiens on the eleventh at around four pm. My host, an artist named Vincent, lived just a twenty minute walk away from the bus stop. So I slung Ellie over my shoulders and trudged off to meet him.
"My bus was a bit early, so I'll be early too," I texted Vincent. "I'm happy to wait for you, though."
"I'm out getting groceries," Vincent's message flashed on my phone. "I'll be back soon."
I entered the password to the gate, climbed three flights of stairs and waited outside of Vincent's door.
Wonder what this one will be like. So, including Vincent, I have... six more hosts before I leave for the US. Vincent in Amiens, Yohann in Montreuil, Emily and Nicolas in Lille, Eduardo in Strasbourg, and Christian in Zurich.
It's weird to have a countdown.
But it's good. I'm feeling depleted. In a bizarre way. Moving in and out of so many homes with such frequency has made me so adaptable that I've become more, "meh, whatever happens happens," than I've ever been in my life.
And I don't think I like that.
I want to be flexible. I want to be open. But I don't want to be "meh". Ever.
Unless it's about tofu. Because tofu is and will always be, "meh".
When I go back to the US, I'm going to have a morning routine again. I'm going to have priorities. To have goals and be excited about them. To MAKE things happen, instead of just shrugging my shoulders and saying, "meh," when life takes my plans and turns them upside-down.
It's healthy to realize that life happens to plans. And plans rarely emerge unscathed. Or at all. Life eats plans for breakfast.
But I want to FIGHT for something. Traveling like this, forcing myself to be adaptable, to make do, has squashed the part of my personality that strives. A part of my personality I love.
I'm going to reignite that part of myself this summer.
Vincent stomped up the stairs, carrying two bags of groceries and wearing a spectacular French cap.
"If I had known you would be early, I would have left the door unlocked for you," he said after we'd kissed each other hello.
Only a few more days of kissing. Then no more kissing. I will be sad to see France go. But I will not be sad to say goodbye to this incessant kissing nonsense.
Vincent handed me a grape.
"She is addicted to grapes," he smiled, gesturing to his squeaking guinea pig.
I held out the purple grape to the brown little fuzzy, and she grabbed it and retreated to the corner of her cage. Where she could demolish her grape without fear of me... taking it back?
"Do you want to explore the city today?" Vincent asked as we sat around the coffee table, getting to know each other over some drinks.
"Let's explore," I replied.
"Do you feel safe on a bike?" Vincent asked as we thundered down the three flights of stairs.
"Sure," I shrugged, thinking that he meant something more along the lines of "can you ride a bike?"
"I'm sorry I don't have a real seat," Vincent motioned to the back of his bicycle. Which had the metal pannier rack, and nothing else.
Yeah. I'm game. Haven't done anything like that since riding on the back of a motorized bicycle in Morocco.
"No problem," I threw my right leg over and sat on the hard metal bars.
"What do you like to see?"
"I like to see parks. Nature. Interesting architecture."
And so Vincent gave me a ride around Amiens.
 |
| Amiens' Notre Dame |
Eh. I'll be fine.
There you go again, Bourget. Adapting. Eh-ing. Is this good for you? To this level?
"OOF!" I grunted as Vincent rumbled over a pothole.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah... It's just a little... painful."
"What is this called?" Vincent motioned to his own backside.
"Well, in the US, we most commonly call it "butt". Or "ass". A lot of people use "ass." But there are plenty of other words for it."
"Okay," Vincent thought through his next sentence. "I will... I will try to be... considering... of your butt."
I laughed and Vincent swerved to miss a bump in the pavement.
"You see?" he asserted. "I am considering."
We spent an hour biking along the Sommes. An area where the river branches off into tiny rivulets, with tiny houses and tiny bridges lining all the banks.
The dilapidated houses looked like they were all leaning on each other for support. Like a bunch of blissfully drunk Italians.
We headed back into the center, and my poor derriere was more than ready to be done with the bicycle. And the torments of that metal pannier rack.
"Do you want to get a drink?" Vincent asked.
"Well, I would love to sit somewhere with you. I won't be getting alcohol because it's not in my vagabond budget, but I would be happy to get a coffee with you."
That was so easy. I need to always say it like that.
"It's okay," Vincent shrugged his shoulders. "I'll invite you."
"Are you sure? Because I can just buy myself a coffee, no problem."
"It's okay. What do you want?" he opened the menu and began to explain the drinks to me.
When someone offers to buy me a drink, I normally opt for the cheapest option. I never want people to feel like I'm taking advantage of their generosity. But Vincent explained all the drinks on the menu, and told me that hot drinks were the specialty of the cafe in which we sat.
So I ordered a luxurious hot drink. With chocolate, coffee, some manner of scrumptious alcohol, and the perfect amount of whipped cream.
"This is so nice," I gushed. "It's really rare that I can order the thing on the menu that I actually want. I usually have to go for the cheapest. Which is fine. And probably better for me, in the long run. But this is lovely."
After we'd finished our drinks, Vincent unlocked the bike and we walked through the center until we reached a bike lane.
Vincent hopped on the bike and I slid onto the pannier rack. Realizing at the last minute, that my host had reattached the bike lock onto the pannier rack. So it would jab my lady parts should I sit down on the rack.
"Wait a minute," I jumped off the bike with all manner of alacrity. "I can't sit with the U-lock there."
Vincent moved ahead slowly.
He's just turning around, right?
Vincent kept going.
No. No, he's not turning around.
Vincent disappeared from sight.
Holy bananas. Does he not realize that I'm not on the bike anymore?
That. Is hilarious.
So I had myself a chuckle and began the twenty minute walk back to Vincent's home. His address was pulled up on my phone and I had his number, so I didn't panic. The whole thing just cracked me up.
What's he gonna think when he realizes I'm not here? BAHA. Oh dear.
"Was I too heavy? ;) " I giggled and sent Vincent a text.
"Oups, where are you?" Vincent texted me back a couple of minutes later.
"Hehe, no worries. Gosh, that's funny."
Vincent found me near the train station a few minutes later, his face a mask of bewilderment.
"I thought you were on my bike. I was talking to you, and you weren't responding. So I looked around and you weren't there. Ah! I was talking to your ghost."
So we had a good chuckle, and I hopped back onto the bike and Vincent carried us back to his home.
The next morning was cloudy, but warm enough.
At least it's not miserably cold like in Toulouse...
"Would you like to go to the sea?" Vincent asked.
"Sure, why not? That sounds like fun," I perked up.
So we loaded into Vincent's car and headed towards the coast.
"Do you like mussels?" Vincent asked. "Mussels and chips are very traditional here."
"Yeah, mussels are nice," I forced myself to say. To me, mussels are tolerable. But traditional food is nice, so I wanted to give French mussels and chips a try.
So Vincent treated me to a bowl of mussels covered in cheese. And I powered through about two thirds of the bowl, before I gave up.
The cheese is nice... but I have the same feeling eating mussels as I do eating snails. Mussels, in and of themselves, are nasty. Why put something as nice as cheese on something as nasty as a mussel? Why not just put cheese on something good? Or decent? Like a cracker? Or an olive? Or a nut? Or ANYTHING but mussels?
But. It was a cultural experience. And sitting in the sunshine and chatting with Vincent was fun. So totally worth it.
We returned to the car and drove back to Amiens, arriving at Vincent's apartment at four pm.
I... I don't feel so good, I thought as a wave of nausea washed over me. Maybe it's the same thing that happened in Montpellier. Maybe I got too much sun and didn't drink enough water.
But I don't have a headache. And I had such a nasty dehydration headache in Montpellier. No... now I'm just nauseous. As nauseous as I was on that treacherous, windy road up to San Jose del Pacifico in Mexico. Fuck. I hate getting sick in host's homes. It's embarrassing and it inconveniences them. Fuck.
I fled to the bathroom and vomited as quietly as I could.
Vomiting quietly is not as easy as it sounds. And it doesn't sound easy.
MUSSELS. You. Are the vilest thing in the history of vile things. Coming up this direction, anyway. So grassy and sandy and slimy and smelly. GAAAAHHH.
"I'm sorry," I returned to the living room and hung my head. "I'm sick. I think I have food poisoning."
"The mussels were not fresh," Vincent agreed. "I have indigestion too."
"I just vomited."
"Good, you should be fine now."
"I don't think so. This is gonna last for a while," I groaned and flung myself onto Vincent's futon.
And it did. I spent the next three hours in unadulterated wretchedness. Stumbling to and from Vincent's small toilet every five minutes. Dry-heaving until I couldn't breathe. Then coughing until my throat felt bloody. Somehow making the most dire, vile noises I've ever heard as the convulsions wracked my helpless body.
Vincent did his best to comfort me.
"I don't know what to do," the poor guy said, and just sat next to me and stroked my sweat-soaked head.
No more seafood. First it was the shrimp in the Philippines. Now mussels in France. Misho got hit by that oyster in Ireland. Seafood. Is the devil. And this is hell.
The devil relented around seven o'clock, and I asked my host to put on a film to distract me from the lingering effects.
I'm exhausted. Holy bananas. What violent misery.
I passed out during the film and slept a solid, beautiful seven hours.
Vincent had to work that morning, and he left around seven am.
"If things don't work out in Paris, you're always welcome here," my host told me. "You can come back whenever you need."
"Thanks so much, Vincent. And thanks for taking such good care of me. I'm sorry for... all the noises. That can't have been fun to listen to."
"No, I'm sorry. We had such a beautiful day, and then that..."
"Hey. We still had a beautiful day. I won't let those three hours of torture ruin the rest of it, don't worry."
So I kissed Vincent goodbye and went back to bed.
Five more hosts, and then Colorado. Five more, Bourget. Do your best to be present for all of them, even though you've begun the countdown.
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