Sunday, August 7, 2005

France from the Window of the Ferry

We arrived in Le Havre on Sunday morning. James and I, having spent a fairly sleepless night in and in the vicinity of our “reclining seats,” tried perking ourselves up with a breakfast and strong coffee. Here we were, at the very outset of our European adventure, tired to the bone already.

The very first glimpse of France in the dawn light did more for our spirits than any coffee could. France, and the whole of Europe, seemed to blossom before us out of nothingness. We had a rough itinerary together, and we were eager to disembark the ferry, catch a train, and disappear into the countryside.

France From the Window of the Ferry

Unfortunately, being a Sunday, train service was rather limited, which neither James nor I had taken into account. Also, as Le Havre is at the tip of a finger of land, there didn’t seem to be a direct train to the west. Our best bet would be to catch a train inland to Paris and change to another train back out to the northwest coast. The earliest train to Paris was in a little under 3 hours.

And so, we waited.

James, our backpacks, and I all sat on the marble floor of the Le Havre train station and waited, our butts growing cold and numb. Aside from the local pigeons, we didn’t see anyone else. I pulled out Europe on a Shoestring and began looking for what our next destination would be. We both decided that Bayeux looked like a good bet, especially since its campground looked cheap.

We caught our train to Paris, arriving at Saint Lazare station to grab a quick lunch of salami in a crusty baguette (a meal I would soon get really tired of), and hopped a train to Caen. We had a few hours to kill before catching another train to our final destination of Bayeux, so we decided to kill a few glasses of wine (“Je voudrais un vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”) while we waited at the tiny bar we could see from the station. I felt oh-so-European, sitting on the sidewalk at a tiny round table, sipping my wine and watching the world pass me by. Of course, I probably looked oh-so-touristy, with my giant backpack’s straps wrapped around my legs, my google-eyed stare darting left to right without ceasing, the unmistakable whiff of overnight ferry and fried breakfast caught in my hair. Ah well, c’est la vie.

Bayeux Station

When we finally pulled into Bayeux and realized we had no idea how to get to the municipal campsite, our fatigue got the best of us. We took a cab from the station, vowing that this was to be the first and only time we’d splurge on a taxi while we were traveling.

Our five minute taxi ride took us straight through town to the campsite, where we eagerly pitched our tent. That first night was one of the coldest, and brought back strong memories of my beach-camping experience. As the night wore on and the sea air got colder and colder, just about every item of clothing I’d brought found its way onto my body: jeans, socks, tank tops, more socks, long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirt, even more socks, scarf, finally even my towel. Unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I started to dread the coming month.

Late July, 2005

I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up, much less walk. My borrowed purple backpack was a monstrosity, almost as tall as me, and stuffed with tank tops, underwear, a camping stove, and whatever else I thought I’d need for the next month. It was all part of the crazy idea James and I had come up with to backpack around Europe after we graduated from art school. Crazy to me, anyway; I’d never dreamed of doing anything like this, and up until a few months earlier, had always said I hated camping and had no desire to do it. (This claim was based on one night in a tiny tent on the beach with my church youth group when I was 12. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, my socks were damp, and the youth pastor’s kids threw rocks at my tent all night.)

Nevertheless, James and I came up with a plan: after we finished art school at our respective universities, we’d take a month to travel around Europe by train, carrying everything we needed in our backpacks, and find cheap campgrounds to pitch our tent in along the way. By the time we returned to London, my 3 year student visa would have expired, and I’d have to pack up and move home to southern California.

That July was an eventful month. After a rigorous campaign, London won the bid to host the Olympics in 2012. The Red Arrows flew over the city toward Buckingham Palace in celebration. The following morning, London’s underground and bus systems were attacked by suicide bombers. Thankfully, none of our crowd was lost or injured.

My family flew in for our graduations. Degree shows came to a close. James and I had a weekend trip to Wales, where I experienced the joys of peeing outdoors, along with many other firsts. (Lentils being one of them. Also sleeping in a sauna and seeing the Milky Way.)

And then it was time.

I looked at my backpack, innocently sitting on the floor of my room. I somehow contorted backwards, stuck my arms through the straps, and tried to straighten up. And immediately fell backwards onto my bed.