Paris: I realize that this is the last trip, and I begin to freak out. Just a little bit, but this definitely counts as a freak-out. And then I decide that it doesn't have to be. I decide to just go; to take a trip, to be wholeheartedly grateful, to be conscious of and open to each moment, and to return home with a big, fat travel bug in my pocket that I will diligently feed for the rest of my life.
Once the freak-out wears off, I think about why I feel so passionate about traveling. It's difficult to organize my thoughts--there's so many things. A passage of Blue Highways comes to mind, and because William Least Heat Moon phrases it so well, I'm not going to try to do it better:
"What you've done becomes the judge of what you're going to do--especially in other people's minds. When you're traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don't have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road."
For me, this is currently one of my favorite elements of travel. Youth is inevitably a period of time during which individuals explore who they are and who they want to be and figure out what they don't know about themselves. I, just like anyone else, need and want this sort of exploration, and it is one of several reasons why I went abroad in the first place.
Paris is a bookend: bookends can be moved to accommodate more. I ponder this and decide to move on to other thoughts. I return to another reason why I love to travel. Since leaving the U.S. I have learned that life should be fun--and not just occasionally, as I once unconsciously believed.
I realized how exuberant I felt after only one day in Florence. I realized how much fun I was having after seven days. And I realized how quickly time soars by when you are actually having fun. Thus, I realized--TRULY realized--how critical it is to be energetic, ambitious, perseverant, conscious, flexible, and creative...with these qualities intact, life can be surprisingly fun.
The problem is that you think you have time.
Buddhist proverb
Thursday.
Kim, Jo and I take a bus from Santa Maria Novella train station to Galileo Galilei airport in Pisa. We wait in the small, crowded terminal while a thick rain decides our fate. The flight to Beauvais is delayed an hour, then two hours, then three hours.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry for the delay. Beauvais' runways have closed so we are being rerouted to another airport nearby for landing. There will be shuttles to take you to Beauvais. Thank you for your patience."
Friday.
I've lost track of time--I'm just ready to get there. As the plane descends, I see a circular configuration of bluish-purple lights. A roundabout. I'm incredibly excited to finally be at least near the city of lightsand Kim and Jo look rather giddy as well. It's probably around midnight when we finally land. The flight attendants smile and giggle and bid us adieu as they shiver near the doorway in their goofy uniforms.
We step out into a cool, Parisian darkness and descend the stairway onto the wet, oily tarmac. The crowd of passengers floods into the small airport, which is empty and seems to be closed. We all wander around inside the big main area, looking for information about where we are and how far we need to go.
Kim, who is our linguistic link to France on this trip, is looking around at the signs, Jo is wandering around trying to find a helpful pamphlet or brochure, and my empty stomach and I are watching an American kid pull a Belgian waffle out of a vending machine. I look around at the signs and notice that there are three languages on them: something that looks like Dutch, then French below it, and then English. I ask,
"Why isn't French the first language?"
After several minutes, we ask an American guy our age if he knows where we are. With a grin on his face he says,
"Belgium."
The Belgian waffle suddenly no longer seems out of place.
We end up waiting in the airport for an hour or more for buses to take all of us to Beauvais. We are told by the airport employees, who are friendly and helpful, that the bus ride to Beauvais will be four hours. I can't help but laugh at the situation--you have to admit, it's pretty damn funny.
After everyone--Italian, American, French, whatever--understand what is going on and calm down, the vibes lighten up. A young, trendy Italian mother in boots and a fur coat plays with a tiny bouncy ball with her toddler. A 30-something Italian guy in a gray, voluminous fur coat (whom we deem Bear Man) wanders around, striking up conversations with others, cracking jokes and being conspicuous in the best way possible. I decide to throw down on a Belgian waffle from the vending machine because a) it's too funny to pass up, and b) I'm VERY hungry. It wasn't horrible. If you're ever stranded in a Belgian airport...
Two buses arrive and it becomes clear that we are not all going to fit. Crowds gather outside each bus and everyone pushes and shoves. We hear that a double-decker bus will be arriving to pick up the rest of us, so we decide to just wait for the jumbo bus, figuring we will be able to lie down because of all the empty seats and sleep the whole way. The buses fill up and drive away. One of the employees approaches the group and says with a Belgian flavor:
"I am very sorry--they have found a bus, but cannot find the driver. They are trying to find him, but you will have to wait."
Fantastic. Now I'm really laughing. It just keeps getting better and better. The crowd goes back inside the airport to keep warm. The children are starting to look pretty tired, as are many of the adults. Jo, Kim and I get comfy beneath a baby ficus and try to keep it all in perspective. Here we are. Three Americans exploring faraway lands. How lovely.
~
I have no clue what time it is, but finally a bus appears in the distance. Everyone, for the second time, rushes outside into the cold. We see it approaching and I say to myself,
"That doesn't look like a double-decker."
And it isn't. As it pulls up alongside the curb it's clear that we are not all going to fit. Jo, Kim and I look at each other and are all obviously in agreement that we are getting on this effing bus. As we expected, the crowd pushes and shoves towards the door of the bus. We let the families with kids push ahead of us but then we began to push as well. We get inside and there are only two seats left. I squeeze into the row with Kim and Jo. At the front of the bus, the driver is telling someone to get off because they don't have a seat. There is no way we are getting off of this bus.
Kim and I sit on top of Jo and cover her. The driver makes his way down the aisle, looking left and right, left and right, checking, counting, whatever. He passes us. He doesn't notice. He heads back to the front and starts the bus. We shift our bodies around and Jo pops her head out.
Laughter bursts out around us when the others notice what we've done. We smile and are quite proud. Goodbye Belgium. Just as we are noticing how difficult it is going to be to sleep during the 4-hour ride, someone notices a bus pull up behind us for the remaining people. We are afraid that it too will fill up and decide not to get off.
Luckily, a lone American traveler leaves our bus, freeing up a seat right next to Bear Man in the back for lil' ol' me. He loudly calls me to the back, rubbing the seat cushion in a circular motion with his hand. Everyone chuckles and smiles at me. I get up and sit down in the corner seat of the back row. Bear Man rolls up his jacket and puts it on my shoulder:
"Pronta?!"
Bear Man is asking me if I am ready, and he lays his head down on the ball of fur on my shoulder, meanwhile everyone is cracking up...including me. Bear Man is not as creepy as he seems--he's just a teenage class clown who happens to be 30-something and out of school. We are his class for the time being and we all seem to be appreciating his humor considering our situation.
I can't help but think about what it would be like to be in this situation with a crowd of Americans. It would be unbearable. Although I can't recall exactly when or where or why, I can recall being in some sort of similar situation in The States, and the crowd was angry, unforgiving and rude, which made the situation that much worse. I was grateful to be in the presence of people who come from cultures that know when to laugh and when to just let it go. For me, our trip to Belgium felt like a blessing; a ridiculous yet exciting test of our newfound endurance and patience. Those who truly love travel are able to smile when "the road" takes them somewhere they did not intend to go. A real traveler is able to cherish the beauty of all the mistakes, problems, and disappointments they experience. I was once told by a high school teacher,
"The struggle is the best part."
It took me some time, but I believe him.
As we pull out of the airport lot we drive down an avenue lined by cottage-like homes with pitched roofs and trees shrouded in bluish-purple lights. We enter a roundabout with a bluish-purple neon sign in the center that says Oostende. More bluish-purple cylindrical lights jut up from the ground around the sign. I nod off, happy to be going once again.
~
My hand is tingling. I wake up. The sun hasn't risen yet. The bus is barreling down a highway, surging through dark blue sky. I look down: Bear Man's hair is tickling the top of my hand. This is the reason I'm awake. How unfortunate.
To put it nicely...I feel like s**t.
The night has stolen my optimism and good spirits and replaced them with drowsiness and hunger.
We pull over. Beauvais. It is a tiny airport with only one terminal. Inside, all the passengers from our flight are strewn about the airport, sleeping and staring blankly...waiting. The airport is just beginning to open. My stomach sinks. I look around and don't see anyone who looks like they'll know if a free shuttle is going to take us into Paris.
The food shops open. The sun still hasn't risen. We get croissants, I throw back an espresso and we pull it together. We spend the next hour or two trying to keep our spirits up and try to figure out what we are going to do. There's talk of taxis, other shuttles, trains...anything. Eventually we learn that there actually will be shuttles to take us to Paris, so we spread the word. Everyone seems to have the same idea: there' s not going to be enough seats.
When the buses arrive, the crowd moves like an amoeba, trying to figure out where the buses will stop so they can be at the head of the mob. The two buses fill up and the rest of the crowd is left on the sidewalk. I am seated next to an Italian guy in his late 20's or early 30's who keeps shushing everyone so he can sleep.
I lean my head against the window and get comfortable. I keep telling myself to hang in there; to not let my good spirits wane. The horizon begins to glow blue as dawn approaches and I fall asleep thinking of Da Vinci, bright lights and coffee. It doesn't get more romantic than that.
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