Flustered Godzilla -- Paris, France

I listened to Vincent clump down the stairs of his third story flat in Amiens, then tugged the blanket back over my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

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?" 

"Waiting for a bus."

"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. 

Seafood is the Devil -- Amiens, France

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

Every rut hurt my poor backside. Every turn was a struggle to stay upright. My sandals left my exposed toes... ominously close to the whirling spokes of the bicycle.

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.

That Horrible City -- Rouen, France

I'm starting this post from a roadside cafe in Rouen, France. I sip an espresso (one that I ordered in French, I'm proud to say) and watch the people walking past. Listen to their shoes hit the cobblestones. Keep an eye on the dark clouds fomenting overhead.

This region of France feels like England. In that it seems to have equally shitty weather. 

  

It's my second morning in the city that wins the award for the most unpronounceable name in all of France.

Rouen. 

Rouen. 

Blurgh. 

My table doesn't have a vase of flowers on it.   It has a pineapple with an orange in its hair.

  

In and of itself, a pineapple on the table is about enough to make me fall in love with a place (I'm easy), and go, "Aww.... Rouen! You're adorable..." 

Hervé is not in love with Rouen. Hervé has never been to Rouen, but Hervé hates Rouen. 

My host from Rennes was born in a village in Lower Normandy. And as such, it is his sacred duty to hate Upper Normandy. Of which Rouen is the capital.  

Hervé was positively gleeful that I could not properly pronounce "Rouen." Whenever I made an attempt, I grimaced like someone was forcing me to eat snails, and uttered a nasal "Rouen" that mostly sounded like a Nepali grandma was gearing up to spit. Hence, I just started calling it "that horrible place."

"It's boring," Hervé had informed me back in Rennes. "The only thing they have is a cathedral. I haven't been there, but it's in "Fake Normandy." So I know it's boring," my staunchly patriotic host drove home the dullness of Rouen. 

But I am not from Lower Normandy.

My only qualm with Rouen is its horrible, dreadful, impossible name.

The city itself, is remarkably easy to fall in love with. For more reasons than its coffee table pineapples with oranges in their hair.

Because of Hervé's dislike for Rouen, I didn't have the best expectations for the city. I figured it would have one decent cathedral and some pretty good cider. But walking through the cobbled streets of Rouen the evening of my first day convinced me that this horrible places is actually "pas mal."

 

It took me thirty five minutes of wandering through the charming city (sorry, Hervé. I'm betraying Lower Normandy)  before I arrived at the home of my next host. During the walk, I admired the unique apartments that looked as if they'd been clumsily sketched by children who were still learning how to make straight lines (seems like a theme in Normandy).

I was very excited to stay with Alix. The man had worked with the homeless in Nice for years, and I wanted to pick his brain about how find similar work in France. 

Don't get your hopes up too much, though. Just because you spent a few months working with homeless in Grand Junction doesn't mean you could hook a foreigner up with a job. A foreigner who doesn't even speak the language. 

Gosh. 

I'm hopeless. 

Alix greeted me with a large, genuine smile and introduced me to his spick and span flat. I plopped Fat Ellie in the corner between the futon and the sliding glass door with gauzy red drapes, and then collapsed onto the black velvet futon. 

How do I still want to sit after busing all day? 

Alix took me into the city that evening. I abandoned my camera in his flat so I could relax and enjoy my first few moments in the city with my host. 

(I never count time I'm wearing Ellie as actually being IN a city. Because seventy-five percent of the time, I'm grumbling, "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fat Ellie." And the other twenty-five percent of the time, I'm avoiding bludgeoning innocent passersby with her burgeoning bulk)

 So when Alix and I strolled through Rouen that evening, I took it all in. With my eyeballs, and not through the lens of my camera. 

"Do you want to go out to eat?" Alix asked me, gesturing to a very nice looking French restaurant. Prohibitively nice. 

"It looks good," I tried to remain cheerful and carefree as I began my difficult spiel. "But restaurants aren't in my vagabond budget. I have to shop at Carrefours and Lidls and Aldis and Spars. If I went out to dinner all the time, I'd have no money left ot travel. Which is like turture in France, because all the restaurants smell so good." 

Alix let the restaurant drop. And I felt thankful. Thankful that I'd mustered up the courage to say no before the restaurand and not just go in, order the cheapest thing on the menu, and then starve myself the next day to make up for it. 

Bourget. You. Are the reigning champion of intermittent fasting. 

Which isn't a good thing. In your case. 

We passed a chain burrito joint, and Alix stopped again. 

"Do you like Mexican food?" 

"Sure," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask me if I wanted to eat there. Because even the cheapest thing on the menu (a five euro set of tacos) was still equivalent to my budget for an entire day of food. 

"Okay," Alix smiled that same genuine smile. "I'll invite you." 

The next day was wet and bleak, but I spent a few hours walking about the city anyway. Using my camera and my eyeballs.

Hervé's gonna hate me... but I actually think this place is prettier than Rennes. The vibe in Rennes is much better. But Rouen is gorgeous.

I bought cider to share with Alix that night. He ordered pizza. And because he works at Kinder now and not with homeless youth, he provided the chocolate.

And we watched a comedy with Melissa McCarthy.

Rouen. You're not so horrible. You could do with a name change, but other than that, I like you as you are. With your pineapples.