The lone ranger adventure, part 4
This is part 4 of my 'travel alone with no plans' series. You can read the other parts here:
- Part 1: London, the beginning, and finding Brighton
- Part 2: Cambridge, punting, and London again
- Part 3: Dublin, Ireland, and learning to live on a bag
- Part 5: Wrapping up London, and going home
Day Thirteen:
Before I talk about Paris, let's talk about Disneyland.
I actually went to Disneyland with family at the very start of this trip for three days. What a start, let me tell you. Three days of big crowds, stroller pushing (or in my world, Death Star trench runs) and really really overpriced terrible food.
As much as I'm always willing to go to Disneyland, I don't love it. It's not my favorite place.
To me, Disneyland is manufactured, yet somehow still manages to have that sort of aura that feels genuine. People love Disneyland. Adore Disneyland. They tell stories of magic and wonder and romance that, whether or not they actually believe their own stories, they tell them so often and with such fervor that they become real.
It is where visitors from afar make pilgrimage to, to view history, experience the stories shared by countless other travelers, to taste a specific slice of life and walk away with a pocketful of memories. And If it were possible to move there, people would.
It is a myth that has been brought down to earth.
Paris, to me, is like Disneyland. Maybe that's why it makes sense that there is a Disneyland here.
Paris feels like an alternate reality where globalization is not a combining of cultures, design and styles that seems to make cities share a similar modern aesthetic or language, but rather the reverse, where modern technologies are brute forced into an existing culture.
Sometimes, this works beautifully. The central Gare du Nord train station is a brilliant fusion of modern railway with and old castle-like building.
Sometimes, I think the jury's out, like the Louvre Pyramid, which looks simultaneously really cool and wholly out of place, and apparently cost Paris an excessive amount of money.
And then sometimes, this strategy just looks adorably sad, like their non-RER subway system, which makes Chicago's L look moderately effective and modern by comparison.
My first impression of Paris is honestly not that great. Maybe I’m just not a romantic guy (actually I know a couple people who would say that), but there's something immediately inaccessible to me about Paris.
I wonder if part of it is the language. I'd heard conflicting stories about how far English would get you in Paris. Some said everyone understands it and won't even let you try to use French. Others said that no matter how much English people know, they will refuse to use it.
I think both are equally true.
My first real French speaking experience comes at a pastry shop, which seem to be everyone. I'm hungry and only have a few minutes before my bike tour, and when I see some croissants and quiches, I muster up the few phrases I learned just yesterday and march inside.
"Bonsoir!" the lady behind the counter announces. If you had asked me how to say 'good evening,' I wouldn't have been able to tell you. But now that I've heard it, it rings a bell in my memory.
"Bonsoir," I say back with as warm of a smile as I can make, knowing that I'm about to destroy someone's language. "Uh...un quiche lorraine, si'l vous plait..." I sort of mutter.
I say 'quiche lorraine' in probably the most American way possible.
She smiles back, and says some word that I don't know. But she gestures towards an oven next to the wall. I think she's asking if I want it warmed up.
Uh...yes. I mean sure. I mean... "Oui," falls out of my mouth.
She's totally getting a kick out of this.
I don't know how to say 'and' or 'also', so I just skip that and point to one of the croissants. "Un croissant, si'l vous plait."
She asks me if I want something or something else. But one of the words sounds like 'almond,' which I absolutely want, and so I try to copy whatever it is she said. Something like 'almonde' but it sounds more like 'a la mode' really fast.
I'm laughing to myself. I'm so out of my element and I haven't been in this situation in a while, trying to pick up the language while I'm using it.
She hits a few buttons on the cash register and spouts off a few words. I see numbers flash on the register's display, and I assume she's telling me how much things cost. I had her a twenty euro bill. She hands me some change, and my food.
"Merci," she says. I pick up how she emphasizes the 'ci' and not the 'mer.'
"Mare-See," I say back.
I walk out of the pastry shop and realize, screw the rules, I just held an entire conversation in French. Hell yeah.
And then I unwrap my almond croissant and take a bite.
Oh. My God.
I take another bike tour that night, and just like in London, I've both cheated and won. In one stroke, I see:
- the Eiffel Tower (Impressive, but they kept the city flat so that the Eiffel would always stick out as a landmark. This strikes me as a mistake.)
- Notre Dame (Tons of tourists, I don't think I really need to go inside.)
- Latin Quarter. (Fun, if I had a group of friends to go with.)
- Some other stuff I don't remember
Paris feels like New York City, but with no downtown and no actual city. Just a ton of cafes and alleyways. Almost like an entire city built like Brighton, which I don't think I actually like.
When it gets really dark, we board a boat to see the city by river. Apparently, it's Nuit Blanche or White Night, which is the one night out of the year that everyone pulls an all-nighter to party it up. There are indeed, tons of people everywhere just chilling, playing music and doing who knows what else.
I chat with a couple from the States. The wife is either really friendly, or a little flirty with me while her husband is right there. We've all had a little bit of wine. It makes me wonder what Paris would be like with another person.
There's something about Paris that rubs me the wrong way. And I can't quite put my finger on it.
Day Fourteen:
I wake up and get a baguette sandwich. It's got salami, lettuce and tomatoes inside. The baguette is, without a doubt, the past part.
I go back to the Louvre, but the line looks like it's hours long. I learn that it's Free Museum Day. No wonder.
I decide it's not really worth my time. I don't really enjoy museums anyway, unless I'm there to poke fun at stuff or otherwise make memories. I think it's hard to make memories at museums. You don't go: hey remember when...?
The Eiffel Tower is close by, so I go back there next. Someone asks me to sign a petition for the deaf. I was warned about this and so I pretend I don't speak English and walk away.
At this point, I'm starting to get bored. I quickly Google other fun things to do in Paris, and see that I don't think I would find any of them very fun. The Arc de Triomphe looks nice, but it's just a structure. I don't want to go to other museums. And I definitely don't want to go shopping. I'm not sure what else I'm supposed to do. And my train ticket back to London isn't until the day after tomorrow.
Unlike London, I have no friends here and no real way to make any. I'm staying at an Airbnb because somehow I felt Paris was a place I needed to have a local host. But the host works for fashion and it's fashion week so he's never home (why is every major possible event happening right when I come!?). Unlike Ireland, I don't have a place I want to see that's in the countryside and I'm a little weary of going home and doing research to find one right now. I'm starting to do a lot of battling in my head and it makes me tired.
Finally, I simply admit to myself: Paris isn't for me. And I can sit here and debate myself forever as to why, but maybe deciphering the root reason isn't worth my time right now.
What I do recall is that the whole point of this trip was to chase my instincts. To not follow too rigid of a plan. Yet in the past few days that's what has started to happen. I've already feel like I've missed that opportunity to do northern Ireland and Scotland.
To figure out that it's better to, after some amount of thoughtful deliberation without ignoring other evidence, choose something because it's what you want, versus choosing because you don't want to miss out. Because ultimately, not wanting to miss out is based on other people's expectations, not your own.
I look up other French cities, Brussels, and even Barcelona, and see that for the money, it's kind of an expensive last minute trip to make. And then I realize, what I really want right now, is just to go back to London. To really enjoy the last few days of what has started to feel like home.
And so that's what I do. I change my train ticket to London to tomorrow.
It might be a mistake. But that's also the point of this trip. To make mistakes. And if I realize it's a mistake, then go back. Yeah I'm toward the end of my trip so I may not make it now, but there's still the future.
I may be the only person to cut short a visit to Paris. But I honestly feel like I enjoy what is now my last day more because of it.
Which actually gives me the freedom to enjoy one of my guilty pleasures, and so at this point I have to make a confession. When I get tired of looking for the right place to eat, I turn to my European safe haven whose name is Pret A Manger. It is packaged sandwich goodness, but it's still goodness. It's become my travel comfort food. I loved it in Hong Kong and I love it in Europe. And truth be told, I'm glad that I'm finally able to get a really good salad, some juice, and just sit. It's a nice change from all the bread. Man does not live on bread alone.
So flat.
Day Fifteen:
I go out one more time to enjoy a Paris morning. At some point, I witness something weird and I'm not sure what it is. I think there's one of three possibilities:
- A man is secretly gay, although he's married to a woman, and I see him cheating on her with another man. Or...
- The man is hanging out with both ladies and men, while the wife is gone. Or...
- Maybe the man and the woman are actually siblings and no affair is happening at all.
I can’t tell. But I’m very very curious. I Google 'France' and 'infidelity' and learn that France has the lowest percentage of people who think infidelity is morally wrong. Fascinating. If you want more details you might have to ask me in person. There’s a story here, for sure.
Moving right along.
Before I head to Gare du Nord to take the train back to London, I get one last croissant for good measure. It's a plain one this time, and I still can't believe how amazing it is. It's so flaky, melts in your mouth and for a moment, I want to stay in this city forever.
I take the Eurostar, which oddly is more expensive than a plane ticket. Maybe tunneling through the English Channel is the larger feat of human engineering, although it's definitely less inspiring than you know, flying.
I hit one more snag at border crossing, again.
The officer scans my passport, and then gives me a sort of look that tells me, trouble is coming.
"Did they ask you a lot of questions at Heathrow?"
Immediately I can feel my skin tense up a little bit.
"Yeah, they did."
"Do you know why?"
"They thought I was here to work."
"And what would give them that impression?"
Ugh, oh my gosh, why is this happening to me again.
"Because I don't have a lot of plans and I've just been bouncing around various cities for the past three weeks."
"Yeah, we don't like that here," he smiles, and then hands me back my passport. "Enjoy the rest of your unplanned trip."
The U.K. loves me. Really loves me.
I arrive at St. Pancras International station, which is so close to the first hostel I stayed at, that I immediately know my way around. It's a thrilling feeling, knowing that what was foreign to me only three weeks ago is now a sign of comfort. I know my way around, and instinctively head to King's Cross station and take the tube down to London Bridge, where I'm meeting my friend Michael.
It's another sign that I've conquered London. I feel like I live here.
Michael graciously offers to put me up for the last part of my stay. Pretty bad host, if you ask me. He's only bought me a couple meals, beers, and is now hosting me in the comforts of his flat.
It is nice to stay with friends, among friends, and to have some semblance of comfort again before the long trek home. I eat dinner with him and his wife, sharing stories about Ireland and Paris and the recent news about Prime Minister Teresa May declaring her intent for a 'hard Brexit.' Thanks to that, the pound has dropped just a little bit more.
I realize that this is the first real conversation I've had in almost forty-eight hours, and that I've missed it. I really am extroverted.