Europe, at long last

It was a holiday of contrasts: the riches of Paris to the poverty stricken small towns of Morocco; lush green forests to arid ashen deserts; grimy youth hostels with odd roommates to five star hotels with portly porters willing to please for a tip; biting cold to searing heat and back to a winter chill once more. We journeyed relentlessly, always heading forwards onto new cities, never looking back; there was no time for nostalgia. We were in a city never more than a few days at a time and were guided by the limits of the train network. In crooked lines we cut our way across the continent on slow trains and on fast trains with the vague notion of needing to head south to Casablanca.

I think constantly adapting to all of this change made things feel a little strange when I got back. Things were the same, but not really. Work was the same, but not quite. My eyes were closed at night, but I wasn’t sleeping.

Anyway, I’ve been back for a few weeks now and things are becoming normal again. The holiday afterglow – where your own city seems new and exciting again for a brief moment – is fading.

Paris

It took around 34 hours from Melbourne airport to reach Charles de Gaulle airport. When I fly I always get the yearning to flick a switch and lose consciousness until I arrive at my destination. Forget first class, not remembering or having to experience the flight at all is the only way to fly. Still, I finally arrived, conscious and exhausted.

The French have their own (albeit quirky) way of doing things and it feels as though the airport is designed to stamp this impression on travellers from around the globe before they are allowed to enter the country. Instead of a bus or a monorail between the gate and the terminal, at Charles de Gaulle, there is a moving walkway that travels for kilometres through what feels like an underground bunker up hills and down them. It must almost be one of the longest moving walkways in the world.

Whilst waiting for the bags I tried to run through the scraps of French that I had learnt in my head. While I should have been revising useful phrases, the only thing I could hear over and over was ‘Je suis fatigué… Je suis fatigué … Je suis fatigué’ (I am tired). My blue chubby bag slid down the chute and Chris’ soon followed. We hoisted our hefty packs on our backs and went to find customs before realising we were out of the airport. Talk about lax controls. I was in France. It felt good to be in a country again – once you walk through the international departure gates and begin your journey, you aren’t really in any country anymore; you’re just a human in transit; you don’t belong anywhere.

The first opportunity I had to try speaking French was when trying to validate our rail passes and get a free train trip to the city centre. I was nervous and took the easy option, asking in French, “Do you speak English?” Fortunately, almost everyone in France seems to speak English and as long as you make an effort to try and communicate in French, they don’t seem to mind speaking English with you. In fact, my French was so bad that people just started speaking English to me, perhaps to save their language from being butchered by my awful pronunciation.

It was a Sunday; the trains weren’t very crowded and people didn’t seem rushed. We arrived at the central station (Gare de Nord) and could have kept going to find our youth hostel, but after travelling for such a long time, all I wanted to do was to get outside into the fresh air and walk about. So we decided to head to a café just outside the station.

Paris was everything I imagined it to be. Low rise buildings with balconies filled with red flowers in hanging pots, narrow streets with small Citroens and scooters whooshing by, pavements crowded with relaxed diners at busy cafés. We found a café, ordered some Perrier and soaked up these new surrounds. It was sunny Spring day and most people seemed to be in a carefree mood.

Fatigue soon won out though and we decided to try and find the youth hostel. We took the metro and zipped underneath the city and walked for a little way with our heavy packs to the hostel. We arrived and checked in with little fuss. It was a reasonable place, but it was a 10 person share room, so each day I wondered what roommates the new day would bring. Fortunately, none of the people that stayed in our room over the four days were intolerable, but a couple came close. I slept fairly well on the first night, but woke at an excessively early time. I didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, so I showered, got dressed and went for a wander. This was to be my routine during the holiday.

Early Morning in Paris - Garbage men and pigeons

The streets were deserted but for a few garbage men dressed in green uniforms and pigeons. I walked along past stores that were barricaded shut, hoping to find some sign of activity. I guess I’d always imagined Paris to be the kind of city that never sleeps. It was a public holiday though and we were a little way out of the city. Finally I came across a café that was open, so I ordered a coffee, French style – two shots of espresso with no milk – and sat outside. I pulled out a note book and started writing. I loved just sitting there, in Paris, watching the city slowly stir awake as the day grew brighter.

Perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea to get up so early and load myself up on coffee whilst still recovering from the long flight. So began two days of sickness, where I felt as though I were going to vomit on precious artworks or in sacred places and where the thought and sight of all food turned my stomach and made me nauseous. Not the ideal start, but I grew to love Paris – one of the world’s greatest cities.