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.