Vitesse Rapide

Like now, in 2003, I wrote with no plan and with no discipline.

Another summer in Cambridge has passed. The city is unbearable on the weekends. Full of tourists spilling out of punts and queuing damply for Jack's Gelato. Stag and hen parties clogging the streets and splashing them with glitter and with vomit. No self-respecting local ventures into the city past noon. I escaped to Canada for two weeks soaking up the fresh sea air and running early morning miles on Dallas Road. I sat on patios drinking craft beer and stuffed myself full of local seafood.

And now September is here again. Darker mornings, heavier clothes, and afternoon cups of thick tea. An inevitable back to school feeling that brings sharpness and focus. Sunday afternoons once again for writing.

9 March 2003 - Train from Paris (vitesse rapide) to Bordeaux

I neglected this journal for several weeks because my trip started to change in Paris.

I made my first international friends in Paris. The kind of friends where you have no common interests nor values. Rather just the randomness that brings people together in mixed hostel dorm rooms. The friendships written about in Lonely Planet guidebooks and that inspire bad American comedy adventure films. I made these friends in Paris, and we spent ten days travelling together.

First, back to Dublin. On another grey night, I chanced upon the oddly coupled Americans. I was eating a chips dinner while sitting on the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Steaming, thick potatoes cut into fat chips and soaked with salt and vinegar served in a newspaper bag. They strolled past and seemed happy to find me. Our walk along Wellington Quay took us to Bono's and The Edge's hotel - The Clarence.

I am not proud of myself, but I was desperate to see inside the hotel despite the three of us being wet and a bit grimy. We made it through the doors, trotted quickly through the lobby and bar area ignoring the disgusted looks. I pocketed two boxes of hotel matches before we were back outside. A success!

The next day was my final, drizzly day in Dublin. Still sick, I roamed the city and visited the National Gallery of Ireland falling in love with John B. Yeats' paintings of London and Ireland. I pretended to be a student at Trinity College Dublin and hid within the groups of undergraduates stopping to listen to student election speeches. There were loads of attractive Irish men that looked like they had been simultaneously raised playing rugby and farming sheep with broad shoulders and velvety accents. I went for a proper Irish tea and then met the Americans for our farewell dinner at a local pub that was off a back street behind another back street. It had a sunken fireplace, low, heavy wooden furniture, and dark beamed rooms leading to beamed rooms. The floors were uneven, and it smelled like roast lamb and gravy. A warm farewell to Dublin, though I never saw a rainbow or a leprechaun.

I woke up the next morning excited to finally travel to Paris. My easyJet flight left around noon and I ended up taking a city bus as the mysterious 'Airport Express Bus' never arrived. Dubliners did not appreciate my huge backpack and lack of exact change for bus fare, but I was impervious. Paris was waiting for me!

It's not an exaggeration to write that somewhere between my bus ride to Dublin's airport to landing in Paris that I lost my enthusiasm for travel. I lost my spirit of adventure. I lost the part of me that found misunderstanding international culture and customs charming instead of just irritating and a bit overwhelming. I was tired and still not feeling well. Worse, I was starting to feel lonely and a bit homesick.

Worry was creeping over me. Would I be able to communicate in French? What if the only French I could remember was the 'Pineapple Song' from a decades old CBC show? Singing about pineapples, even in French, wasn't going to get me a decent hostel room or a freshly baked croissant.

I was dreading another chilly and grubby hostel experience. I had irrational fantasies about staying in a five-star hotel where everyone spoke fluent English, I didn't have to lock my bag to my bunkbed or shower with my passport in a plastic pouch, and there were endless plates of Vancouver sushi and free hot stone massages.

Hindsight is a beautiful and a frustrating feeling. I am still only about halfway through this trip, but about ten days past my last days in Dublin and my first days in Paris.

I can reflect that during my first international trip alone that I am going to make mistakes. I don't know anything about anything beyond what I am now starting to appreciate is my very comfortable and small place in British Columbia. Much less, I don't know who I am when I travel. I am capable and confident in the safety of my own environment, but this experience is completely different.

I am learning to give up control and to adjust much more quickly to the unexpected. I must ask more questions and risk being truly out in the world. It is humbling to learn that no matter how good my intentions that I may sometimes be unwelcome or misunderstood. I am learning to smile more and to be more patient. I need to trust my gut and take care of myself in new ways. I am constantly reminding myself that no matter what happens during this trip that at least I am travelling, having these experiences, somehow fumbling my way through everything, and learning I am stronger and braver than I thought possible. And that the world is beautiful, small in so many ways, and full of unexpected joys.

I have come to love the feeling of arriving in a new city, feeling hopelessly lost, and knowing nothing. Then in a couple of days, less than 48 hours, feeling myself merge with the city and know some of its intimate secrets. To know how to work the pay toilets, the best shop to buy a delicious bottle of cheap wine, and how to 'mind the gap'. I love how quickly the unfamiliar becomes the familiar. And how every single time it happens, it feels like both my biggest accomplishment and a bit of a miracle.