Saturday, August 6, 2005

It was time to go. Somehow my enormous backpack and I managed to get from my flat at Old Street to James’ house in Stoke Newington without taking anybody out. After a few final preparations (Passports? Cameras? Underwear? Check, check and check.) and a final home-cooked meal of chicken kievs and potatoes, we were ready to begin our journey. His parents drove us to London Waterloo station, wished us well and waved goodbye. We boarded our evening train to Portsmouth, and then we were off, my stomach in my throat.

A bookworm by nature, I had limited myself to bringing only 3 books to last me a month: Rite of Passage: Tales of Backpacking ‘Round Europe from Lonely Planet, Deep France: A Writer’s Year in the Bearn by Celia Brayfield, and the Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring: Big Trips on Small Budgets. (Can we see a trend here?) I pulled out Rite of Passage and began to scare myself silly. With stories of hostels that smelled like vomit and being mugged not once but twice in Saint’s Station, Barcelona, this was probably not the best choice of books to bring with me while experiencing my first backpacking adventure. With some distance and time, I can chuckle and empathize with these writers and fellow travelers, but at the time it just terrified me.

In no time, James and I were in Portsmouth, where we would leave behind Britain and all of its familiarity. As dusk fell around us, we made our way on foot to the harbor, where we had two seats on the overnight ferry to Le Havre waiting for us. Still a beginner at this backpacking thing, I felt like I was walking through neck-high water: exerting all the effort and not getting very far very fast. What a relief it was to find the ferry terminal.

As we pushed off, James and I stood on deck at the railing, watching England slowly slip away from us and be swallowed by the night. “I’m in the middle of the English Channel!” I thought to myself, mentally conjuring up a map of the world with a big X over southern California and an even bigger X in the space between Britain and France (You Are HERE). Just living in London alone had been a huge mind-bender at times (I live HERE?), so embarking on a European adventure was almost beyond belief.

The ferry to France takes longer overnight than it does in the daytime, so we had a long night ahead of us. The reclining seats we’d booked were disappointingly uncomfortable, with cold plastic covers and unmovable arm rests, and in actuality only reclined maybe 12 inches. Apparently our fellow travelers were just as disappointed, because before long, virtually all available floor space was taken over by sleeping bags and bodies. I bedded down in the aisle between the seats, only to be stepped on repeatedly throughout the night. The room we were in felt like a movie theater without a screen, or a conference room with no podium or stage. Just lots of bodies, anticipation brewing like a strong pot of coffee, making sleep impossible.