At Long Last

We're now solidly into our second month of travel. Currently am I sat in a cafe nestled right up to a coconut-strewn beach on the cheery shore of Ko Samui in Thailand. I realize I haven't written in awhile, and really it's my vacational duty to report all my doings. So at long last—here it is.

 A Bad Start and Then Some

It's hard to imagine back to the start of this little adventure, back when I was wearing fleece and hiking boots. I do remember that the beginning was fraught with much anxiety, thanks to the inefficient staff at Air France. Now I knew there would be hiccups in this trip, but I didn't expect a major one at the start. I had a good enough flight, sitting next to a charming Parisian named Elaine. We talked almost through the whole flight, and made the time fly. I knew this start was too good to be true. When I landed in Paris, Elaine disappeared into the EU line and I was made to stand in a very long, non-moving, non-resident line. I knew that Chris was waiting for me, and was probably getting very impatient. I finally made it through (one of the last ones) and almost ran to pick up my baggage. It was worrying that no one was around the baggage carousel. It was even worrying that there were only five or six bags going around, and none of them were mine. I tried to keep cool, all the while thinking of Chris on the other side waiting for me. I went to the baggage department and told them my bag hadn't shown up. They asked for my baggage claim ticket. And this is when they informed me that my bags had gone through to Manchester. This was my worst fear, as I had purchased a return ticket from Manchester, but was only using the flight to Paris on the way back. I had called Air France before the trip and explained the situation, and there didn't seem to be a problem as long as I informed them at O'hare to put my bag through to Paris instead of Manchester. The inefficient staff at O'hare had messed it up, though they assured me they had taken care of it. And now, after all that, my bag was on its way to Manchester without me.

That actually sounds worse than what it was. They were simply transferring my bag to the Manchester flight, which hadn't taken off yet. There was time for them to get my bag, though I'd have to wait for it. I was relieved they could get my bag, but panicked about Chris on the other side. Stupid as it sounds, I don't have Chris' number. He was always just “Chris” on my cell phone (you know how it goes). I've never actually memorized his number. I left my phone back in the States. I tried to send him an email, but I couldn't get wifi. I tried to call my mom to contact him, but my international phone card wouldn't work. It was now going on two hours since my flight had landed. I was nearly in tears, knowing that Chris must have been worried out of his mind. I finally asked if I could go through the barrier and talk to him. The girls in the baggage department said yes, as long as I called on the black phone to get back in, and show my baggage claim form (I took their word for it). I made my way through the doors, and Chris saw me almost immediately. There were many emotions and a few whimpers and such (from me). Indeed Chris had been very worried, so much so that he had called my Mom, who was now worried as well. All because of inefficient staff at O'hare. Now I had to get back in the barriers, which resulted in me shouting down a phone and trying to explain in French to a security guard that I needed to get my baggage. I was waving my passport around (it had my baggage claim form on it). Chris mistook all this waving around as me causing a ruckus, and all of a sudden he was behind me saying “That's my wife.” Despite all this I finally got through. And my bag came tumbling down the carousel. And I was allowed to go on my merry way and begin my blessed trip.

Paris in a Few Hours

There’s so much to see in Paris, even if you have a full day. But I've been here twice before, and have already seen the main sights. We decided to leave Paris as soon as possible, as it’s one of the most expensive cities in the world. We had booked a TGV train to Lyon. Now we had to make our way to Gare de Lyon. It was my first time really trying out my rucksack, you know, the one I have to carry on my back for a year. I've carried it around the house, but have never hit the pavement with it before. Well, in Paris, I hit the pavement. And I quickly realized that my home on my back was quite on the heavy side. But everything in there was essential (all except for the pink long johns, which I threw out shortly after). I would have to learn to live with rocky shoulders. We had a few hours to kill before the train to Lyon, so we took the Metro to Notre Dame, my old Paris stomping ground. Our first moments in Paris together were spent in finding a public bathroom for Chris. We barely even blinked in the direction of Notre Dame. Our eyes were peeled for a WC (I won't yet get into the lack of public bathrooms in Europe). Once a bathroom was found (the public one was closed, so Chris had to dash into a bar, which was worth it for him to get shouted at) we could stroll along the Seine and enjoy the sights. Spring was in full bloom, and we walked under the crabapple trees. Paris in the springtime—oh la la. Chris and I were fortunately feeling the love, having been apart for three weeks. We were beginning our adventure, and Chris was like a whole new person, now that he had escaped from the rat race. He seemed entirely lighter, even with a heavy pack on his back. We held hands and walked together as backpacker lovers.

Elaine, the Parisian on the plane, had suggested we visit Place de Vosges, near the Gare de Lyon. It was a square surrounded by charming brick buildings. We dropped our packs for a bit and enjoyed the scene. Then we continued on to catch our train. The TGV is a high-speed train, much like the Japanese bullet trains. Chris had secured a 1st class ticket. Or at least I thought he had. We had purchased 2nd class Interrail passes, good for a month. We had read that many of the trains we need a reservation for, despite our passes. The TGV is one of those trains. Chris found that the reservation for 1st and 2nd class were the same price, so he went for 1st class. Brilliant, right? Well it dawned on us that indeed we hadn't paid for a 1st class seat. We sat there sweating a bit as the train took off. First class was nice enough, though we stood out in our backpacker garb (everyone else was elegantly dressed and didn't smell of sweat like we did). I envisioned us being kicked off the train, or being made to pay the difference. But when the ticket man came, he glanced hard at our tickets (we thought for sure we were in trouble) and wished us a bon voyage. We had gotten away with it. I took a brief nap on the train, seen as how I had recieved only a few scattered moments of shut-eye on the flight over. I was in desperate need of sleep.

Sleepless in Lyon

Thanks to brilliant directions from our campsite, we made our way to Camp Indigo, right outside of Lyon. This involved taking the subway and a bus. But all was good, as the campsite was right near the bus stop so we didn't have to heave our bags far. The campsite was adequate enough. There were hardly any campers. Besides us, there was only one other tent pitched. We were happy to find seperate sites (in the UK everyone's thrown together in a field). There was a sense of privacy. We set up our tent (our lightweight one, that takes about five minutes to put up) and then walked to the Supermarche down the street to buy our dinner. French supermarkets—what beautiful things. I nearly wept. I stood in the cheese aisle for about ten minutes, uncertain what cheese to buy. Everything was incredibly cheap. A hunk of brie was two euros. Two euros! In the States it's 4x that. I wanted to grab it all. When again will I find such a fantastic collection of inexpensive cheese? Chris had to drag me away. Then we ended up in the wine aisle, and this is when I thought I'd really break down. I wanted to drop to my knees and thank every French person in the vicinity. A good bottle of wine was no more expensive than a jug of Coke. No wonder why the French are so proud as a people. Their food is seriously the best in the world.

Chris and I returned to our campiste, set our groceries out on a picnic table, and feasted on a dinner of cheese, french bread, saucissons, and wine. It was nothing short of perfect. The sun went down and we went for a short walk. The full moon was just coming up. Again—perfect. Feeling content, we headed to bed, settling into our sleeping bags. The tranquility of the day (despite its bad start) wore off as the reality of life in a tent hit us. There wasn't enough room for everything. Our tent was cramped with just us in it, but we had all our bags. We couldn't lay out straight. And the ground was hard. Plus there was this smell... All in all, not exactly comfy. It took me awhile to fall asleep. I must have slept for an hour before I woke again. And then I was wide awake. To my mind it was 3:00 in the afternoon. There was nothing I could do to convince it otherwise. I had to ride it out, but that meant I had to listen to Chris snore through the next five hours. I got up at one point to make the journey to the bathroom, and with this I got to look up and see not only that brilliant full moon, but a whole sky full of stars. It almost took my agony away. Almost.

The next day, while walking the streets of Lyon, I was almost feverish with tiredness. However, I tried to pull myself together, since Lyon is a very lovely city. In the interior of France, it's a friendly down-to-earth kind of place. The public transport is superb. It was incredibly easy to get around; pleasant even. On the banks of two rivers (the Rhone and the Soame) Lyon is more massive than it appears. We made our way up to the cathedral on the hill and looked out over the city. At this great vantage point, we sat for awhile and enjoyed the breeze. Then we made our way back to the campsite, where we spent a second evening feasting on bread and cheese.

And then came the night of torture. It began to rain. And Chris continued to snore. And I couldn't sleep, though my body was aching for it. No matter what I did, no matter how Zen I let my mind become, sleep was not happening. I did something I've never tried before—I counted sheep. I envisioned these fluffy little things jumping off a short cliff into a cute wool pile. I got to 300 before I gave up. To make matters worse I had the weirdest of songs stuck in my brain—a song from The Muppet Movie, which I had seen just the day before departure. It was the Miss Piggy ballad, where she's professing her love for a frog. If I wasn't so grumpy and unable to sleep, I would have found this humorous—a pig singing inside my head—but I didn't. Then Chris woke up (or I woke him up, I can't remember) and we had a little conversation. Bless him, he sacrificed his sleep to help me get some.

In the end my mind did succumb to sleep. But then the morning came. We had to wake at 5:15 in order to catch the first bus. Our train to Carcassonne (the only one that hadn't been fully booked with French vacationers) was due to leave at 7:20. We woke in the dark. I figured after such a hard night that I needed a shower. The shower must have felt good. By the time I came out, Chris had already taken apart the tent. And now the time was late. It was chaos, us trying to work in the dark. The rain had turned everything muddy. Everything we touched turned to mud. It was incredibly unpleasant. And our time was running out. We had to catch that bus. We stuffed everything into our bags and hauled them onto our backs. We made our way to the exit, only a few minutes until the bus came. We found a line of cars, and a barrier blocking our way. Some guy held up his fingers. Six minutes. We didn't have six minutes! Chris and I were frantic to catch that bus. Chris found a hole in the fence and tried to push me through. I couldn't make it with my bag, so Chris tried ripping my bag off my pack. He ended up chocking me, as my day bag was wrapped around my neck. I started screaming for him to stop. I'm sure we were making a spectacle of ourselves. Chris then succeeded on shoving me through, but he avoided the same fate by going around. By that time someone had come out and unlocked the gate. I had gotten through, and was starting to run to the bus stop. But I realized my glasses were missing. They had come off during the whole episode. I ran back and scoured the ground for them. I ran back to meet Chris, and by this time I was whimpering. I wasn't really crying, just whimpering with the horribleness of it. After the sleepless night, the rain, the mud, the early start and the rushing to make the bus (even getting strangled in the process) it was too much. It turned out that the early train to Carcassonne was delayed by over an hour. Such is life. We decided that we were getting a hotel room in Carcassonne no matter what. We had suffered enough.

And then our “bad" start to our trip was over. We had cut our teeth. We had learned some lessons. We had learned that's it's ok to to get a hotel room and to sit in a McDonalds, even in an ancient city. Everyone has their methods of survival.