Tuesday, 28 march.
Writing this on a French keyboard, so there are constantly z’s where there should be w’s, q’s where there should be a’s. Jesus this is hard. Had a discussion last night with T.’s roommates about usage of the phrase “Oh my God”: if and when we use it, in what situations, the difference between using it in French and in English. I thought of our old teacher Sylvie and how that conversation would have been the kind of conversation she’d have shown us for educational purposes. Talked about many other things too, and at the end of the night T. commented that my French had held up rather well, over the years.
Today everyone is at work and I’m here drinking instant coffee and listening to the construction workers across the street. Lille is an interesting place; not all that big, not really all that different from so many other medium-sized French cities—it seems to me at first glance like a slightly rearranged version of other parts of the country. I know there must be variations, that there are unique qualities to be found and that T. is trying to show me, if I let him. He loves cities. I treat them as places to do things and then leave. Yesterday he took a picture of me looking over the Grand Place de Lille and reading, which is already a memory that I can tell will stay with me.
There was a lot to tell about getting here, trouble with flights and losing my laptop at airport security (hence French keyboard), but I quickly stopped wanting to tell that story. T. and I got together and started making plans and really we haven’t stopped—it’s all ‘Tuesday we’ll go eat this’ and ‘Wednesday we’ll drink that’, which we both know is enough to keep us going. It’s a state in which I don’t have to stop and think.
Wednesday, 29.
Tried to write more in the evening yesterday but found that I didn’t have anything to say. I took several walks and stopped in several stores, looked through windows, had an allongée at le Café Citoyen, a nice place where students, local hoods, and passing long-distance bikers all come together to sit. You always find these kinds of places hanging around French cities, and I always feel that this is what the States tend to be missing, these grungy cafes where apparently anybody can come to spend time. Now that I’m thinking about it I realize that it’s not the place that should be the focus, that perhaps the people are coming together of their own accord. It feels like a very American mindset, thinking that a place alone has all of its sense of character and that the people come after the fact.
T. worked most of the day so I ended up watching Slumdog Millionaire and the latest episode of Succession. There’s something about being on vacation, spending the day in someone else’s apartment, and being six hours ahead of everyone I know that makes it very easy to spend all of my time absorbing media. I finished watching those things and thought that a documentary might be nice. There’s some time to kill until 3, when I have to catch the tram.
Today T. is going to show me around ‘his neighborhoods’ in Rubaix, where he and his colleagues carry out their ‘projects.’ In Europe he went to school for urbanism, which is a word we don’t really use, and now he works for the city government assisting with the kinds of projects that make new parts of the city more cohesive and friendly towards its inhabitants. I’m still figuring it out; it’s interesting and T. is very passionate when he talks about it. It reminds me of how I don’t really care about the job that I have back home, or at least I don’t care in the same kind of intense way. It’s easy for me to get depressed thinking about my job and what I will do in the future, and so I remind myself that T. and I are very different people. It’s much easier to be friends with someone when you keep that in mind.
3/31. Friday.
So many things have happened, I feel that I’ve already lost track. On the way to Rotterdam this morning—trains delayed, buses canceled; long story short is that I’m still in France, sitting up with a cup of coffee and waiting for everyone to wake up so that we can catch our rescheduled bus.
The other night, Wednesday I think, T. and I ended up in a whirlwind of our own making, wherein my head nearly popped off as he continually recalibrated our evening plans. We practically jumped off a moving bus when we realized that it had be re-routed by the strikes and so wasn’t going by the bar where we had planned to have drinks.
All was good in the end: we browsed Rubaix, shared a ‘Welsh’ (delicacy of Lille), and at the end of the night made it to see a ‘math-rock’ live show. But I think it all taught us something about each other, or about spending time with people in general—how being a good friend has something to do with irreconcilable differences.
Next day, yesterday, we started slow. T. must have drank four beers during the music show alone but he was doing alright, only a little tired, and I ran out to the boulangére down the Rue Nationale to find us some viennoiserie for breakfast. I have naturally lower energy than T., speaking of differences—perhaps I’d been in denial of this fact before—and so he was ready to go by midday, while I, left to my own devices, would have spent the rest of the day inside, read a book, maybe found a movie to watch. So we took a rather leisurely walk together that took up the rest of the afternoon.
T. has spent a lot of time thinking about his city and so speaking to him about it is like opening a book and watching all of the words come tumbling out. He’s done this before, given other friends ‘the tour,’ but he’s so energetic that it felt like the first time. He took me around the central monuments—le Mairie, le Palais, this old factory made completely of brick—and also through the neighborhoods that very few tourists would ever want to see. He points out structures that have been renovated to be more conducive to the general life of the city, and notes to me how these efforts have encountered obstacles and challenges.
At one moment he was in the process of explaining how there are certain areas where I probably shouldn’t take any pictures, because there is drug activity and it might not be appreciated. Just as he started saying this I was taking a picture of a brick archway across the street, which I thought looked quaint. A small black car suddenly pulled up in front of me and the man in the passenger seat started telling me something. I ignored him and kept on walking.
Then the car was in reverse, following me. The man came out of the car and we realized that something was going on. I could only understand every other word that was being said, and T. stepped between me and the men to mediate. There were three men who’d appeared out of the car, one of them a small teenager who stood in the middle. Apparently the guys wanted to see the pictures I was taking, and it was rather unclear as to why; if he wanted them deleted or something else. They diffused a bit when T. made it clear that we were Americans, that I was a tourist, and that he worked there in town. “Tourist?” one of guys said, the less serious-looking one. “But what are you doing here?”
They were friendly enough by the time they went back to their car, which they’d just left there in the street. For some reason the younger one was wearing a motorbike helmet; I thought this was pretty funny. I was somewhat disappointed for the scene to end, as if we were just starting to get somewhere. Then we were alone again, walking the empty streets.
We spent the last afternoon of my time in France at T.’s apartment. We relaxed for a few hours until things picked up towards evening, when we had to start getting ready for the weekend in Rotterdam and the arrival of the girls. It’s starting to always end up like this: a dip in our energies, when I’m allowed to rest but also to begin having doubts—about everything from travel to friendship to what I will do when I get back to the States; followed by the inevitable upswing, spurred by our passion for dinner or drinks or catching the next bus. Maybe one requires the other. Now T. is waking everyone up and we’re soon on our way.
april 1st.
Lots of walking and lots of rain here in the Netherlands. Traveling in a group—now we’re four—is an entirely different experience. We are no longer tethered by one person’s established life; we’re officially tourists, a group stretched in one direction or another based on sudden desires. Sometimes I think one of the most unpleasant things in life is to be a part of a group that’s ‘seeing’ a city. One must not exert too much will, but then the group as a whole eventually needs to be pushed in one direction or another. At the worst moments it can seem like you aren’t even seeing anything, like it’s all been clouded over by a confusing mess of each other’s impressions.
But it hasn’t been so bad. I have perhaps been the worst complainer of the group, as it has been rainy & cold; T. has found me an umbrella (from the trash, but it works fine) and for the most part he has been very lenient towards my need for breaks. We have found innumerable pints of blonde ale and little cups of coffee, and I’ve been catching up with L. who I haven’t seen in years. These conversations have really become the meat of the week-end, as the mixture of highrises and distinctly Dutch architecture provide a lively and engaging backdrop.
Honestly my favorite part of this trip has been the getting-there: L’s arrival on an early-morning bus, our collective walk to the Lille station, and the 3-hour ride north through Belgium. Conversation laden with this charge of excitement and expectation; easy to talk and easy to stop, with the entire weekend ahead. I got a little sad when we finally stepped off the bus and found ourselves in the city, the experience itself. I felt the weight of having to take it all in. I know that new things can be good; but as for exploring new ground, I’m already ready to put it aside.
april 2, sunday. JFK airport.
Ugh. I really thought I wasn’t going to get around to writing this, but here we are. Paid 3.80 for a truly terrible cup of coffee and sat down with a group of departures headed for Indianapolis. (Never been.) I have that spaghetti-feeling of constantly yearning to get where you’re going: wanting for the future to simply arrive. You can see it in the way people in airports look uncomfortable when they’re standing still. I have one more night after this in Portland before getting home. This morning I woke in very high spirits, and maybe it would have ended up being a good day if it had been allowed to end at some point. As I sit here and write, however, I begin to think that the next few hours might not be so bad.
april 3.
Home now. My, it does feel good to ‘get back to it’, to whatever that might be. Honestly I wasn’t really looking forward to having the day to myself at home, but I could never have anticipated the feeling of relief that would come from leaving all these airports and buses behind.
As for those last few days in Rotterdam, I’m not tremendously interested in describing an itinerary, because it was the going itself that was exciting, the being-there with these particular people. On the first night we found a nice bar that we ended up returning to later on because we couldn’t find anything better; we ate fries and played cards, and L. gifted me a wooden spinning top that she’d made at a friend’s lathe. I was very bad at spinning it at first, but I’m getting better. These impressions feel detached from the city itself, as though we were in our own little world, just passing through.
T. made many observations of the architecture and design of the city, and frequently asked our thoughts. He’s able to draw comparisons and conclusions; while for me it was like taking a too-large bite of an apple, trying to swallow it all at once. I’d probably have to go back five more times in order to make a coherent impression. It rained most of our time there and it was always cloudy; yet we kept going and had some good walks together, which in my book made it a success.
Once again my favorite part took place at the periphery. We all left the hostel a little early on Sunday morning so that the gang could see me off at the station; their bus back to France was scheduled an hour or so later. They made sure I found the right train, and T. helped an Eastern European fellow who had lost his phone. I was not happy to go off alone, but was relieved to finally be on track for home.
The last 24 hours was all travel. I met a couple from Bucharest on my flight to JFK. We talked a lot about things that travelers typically talk about and exchanged Instagram information. We ate airplane food together and they watched the first half of several movies. These things kept me occupied and content. The long hours in JFK were made bearable by writing some new ideas for stories, drinking coffee, and making a few calls to friends.
I did not feel really at peace, however, like everything was going to be OK, until the next morning when a friend from Portland put me on a bus back to Brunswick. It was that final leg of the trip when you think that everything from here will be easy, and everything has been worth it. I had the time to think about all the friends who had helped me, and to consider how I would do it again in the future.
Welcome back from away.
Don't stare too hard at that future-ball, eh? My the grey clouds gather in its crystalline hold.