Paris to Saint Jean d'Angély

In saying goodbye to the constant lights, the urine scented Metro and the altogether magic of Paris, my last few hours in the city consisted of Sherry, Danielle and I dragging our luggage (packed for one year in a cold climate) up and down stairs, in and out of work-day crowded Metros, and in lost circles. Our goodbyes were rushed hugs, and suddenly I was completely alone trying to find my train in the Paris Montmarte Gare. It was gray, everyone was in a rush, and there were hardly any signs to mark which train went where.

I asked a British woman where I was supposed to go, and she asked a French family on the same train to help me up--even though I was speaking to a British woman, who allegedly speaks proper English, she still had trouble understanding me and told the French family that I needed help with my luggage instead of finding my train. Alas, when they helped me find the car of the train and instructed me in a mess of English, French and gestures, I thanked them and climbed into the train.

On airplanes, I usually end up having conversations with the person next to me. Yet, on trains, for some reason people aren't as eager to talk to you--even if you say "Bonjour" in your best French impersonation, and I spent the 2 hour train ride to Poitiers reading Rolf Pott's Vagabonding and staring out the window. Despite my fatigue from the Metro and Gare confusion, I was amazed at the landscape. France is full of hills, trees and rivers, towering old steeples and buildings with character. Unfortunately, it was not particularly clear as to where the train was stopping; the main indicator was a mumbled and quiet intercom announcing a jumbled French without non francophones in mind, so I had to ask the unfriendly young woman next to me if we were in Poitiers. The Poitiers train station was infinitely less confusing than Paris', though people weren't much friendlier.

One of the most curious things about Europe is that bathrooms are difficult to find. You'd think at a train station, there'd be a bathroom. Yet, the only bathroom in the Poitiers train station costs 1 euro, and the women's stall is somehow always broken and the men's always in use. If you pay for meal in a restaurant, you can most of the time use their restroom for free, though it's not always a particularly pleasant experience. I also find that unless you ask people for help, you won't get to where you need to be. So, I've become talented in the art of smiling and using my hands while I speak. A young man around my age taught me that it's necessary to "Compost" (which is actually validate) your ticket before you board a train.

The boy I sat next to on the train to Surgeres was your typical teenage jerk. I put my backpack on my seat, and he stood up to let me in, but I had to use the restroom. Yet of course, I had no idea how to say this to him. So, I smiled and said "Umm, J'ai besoin le toilet!" This, of course, made him and his friend a few aisles over laugh at me, and I shrugged off the embarrassment that would soon become a daily experience.

Claude, who recognized me by the ukulele strapped to my bac, picked me up at the Surgeres Gare and talked about America as he drove me into Saint Jean D'Angély--a town where there is only one showing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, and it's dubbed in French.

The Art of Travel

(The Palace of Versailles)

Cities often fail to be what we romanticize them to be. Alain de Botton teaches us that the art of travel lies in our ability to reflect and cherish our travel experiences in a more romantic, meaningful way. Traveling itself is exhausting, confusing, never to plan and even a little miserable at times.

I admit that Paris was a little miserable. After landing in the Paris de Gaulle airport, I had to carry a year's worth of belongings across the airport, onto the RER train, through a train station, into several metro trains (Keep in mind the metros only have stairs), up and down hills in the rain while being lost in Paris--all while not knowing quite how to ask for or understand directions. Even though I was traveling with two other girls, we had a friendly French guy try to follow us home (and Danielle seriously joked about how she had seen the movie "Taken" and wasn't about to let it happen to her). Paris was so much more expensive than I imagined it to be, and I think my body was in shock from the jet lag, the sudden copious amounts of rich cheese I was digesting (vegetarians eat a lot of cheese in Paris), and two pairs of my shoes literally broke from walking so much. And--they broke while I was trying to get around Paris.

Yet, I found myself laughing at myself as I tripped over my suitcase trying to get out of a metro. I smiled at how unrecognizably cold it was; my friends and I were absolutely giddy upon freezing on the Eiffel Tower at night, and I can actually say that I was happy despite all of the physical strain, confusion, and moments with creepy strangers. My arms throbbed from carrying my suitcase, my backpack full of electronics and my ukulele up and down stairs, onto and out of metros. The backs of my knees were bruised from my suitcase hitting them--but it was all part of the experience. The being lost, the never ceasing confusion, the freezing unpredictable rain--it was part of the beauty of being overwhelmed by a new place.

Paris is one of those cities that has its own heart beat. Even though the Parisians themselves scoff and scowl too much for their own good, the city throbs with history, the wonder of those who visit and explore it, the grandeur of the gold and cobblestone and beautiful architecture. It's a city that can be visited any time of year--even any time since its founding, and still be alluring.

I went to the Louvre for free, and didn't have enough time to see it all. I toured the Palace of Versailles and contemplated the sounds of the French Revolution as I stared out the window. I begrudgingly went into the Eiffel Tower again and found myself in one of the most beautiful moments in my life, looking out at the city of lights at night in freezing wind and laughing with girls I was getting to know through a love for the French language. I stood beneath the Arch de Triomphe as it lit up. I ate many, many delicious meals in Paris cafés where the waiters were always smiling, giggling, inviting French men with a passion for food. I had the best cappuccino of my life. I finally started to understand the Paris Metro, and I ate baguette sandwiches in the Park and watched the life around me.

Paris is a city that lives, and it's a city that can be appreciated in the very moment you are lost, standing by the Hotel de Ville with a map unfolded in the rain.

In the Air

Thirty minutes before I boarded a Trans-Atlantic flight alone to live in a foreign country, I felt my eyes water as I washed my hands in the airport bathroom. From the moment I passed through security, having stripped myself of my possessions and put my own body under an examination, my wrists began to shake.

I was seated next to an Argentinean woman who could not speak English. We communicated through smiles and gestures; I gave her a piece of gum, and she woke me up for the dinner cart. Together we watched the “Oceans” program on marine invertebrates, our shoulders touching with two different languages in our ears.

My nervousness from departure kept me up the night before, and I found myself sleeping soundly despite my being curled against the airplane window. I woke up while the cabin was dark and quiet, and I saw that we were flying over Dublin. I began thinking about what would happen when I landed in Paris—how would I find my friends? How would we get to Diana’s house in Paris? How was I going to communicate myself in French—a language is so much more than a collection of memorized phrases and rules. What am I even doing going off to France?

The sunrise over the North Western coast of France was unimaginable. All of the earth visible from over a thousand feet in the air was bathed in the pink of the rising sun. We flew through wisps of clouds, all of them glowing orange, and passed through open, fuchsia tinted skies. I took a deep breath and pointed out the window for the woman beside me to see.