By morning, I was not ready to leave Amsterdam. I was wishing we had chosen to stay longer. Part of it was laziness. Our apartment was so cozy. But the other part was I still had a craving for the city. I only got a small taste and I wanted more of the funky flavor Amsterdam was. We had a very long bus ride ahead of us to Paris. 7 hours.
My past experiences with the US Greyhound bus system set a very low standard of expectation for the trip. If we had planned earlier, like most people, we would have been able to ride the fast train. But saving almost 200 euros felt like justification enough so we didn't complain about unknown terrors. We were completely confused about how to get to the bus depot, but we tend to have this "it will be ok" philosophy which made us believe we would figure it out as we traveled. Step one was to return our apartment keys and the bikes and head
toward Central Station. Step two would reveal itself somewhere along the way- either in the form of an "aha moment" or a big mistake. We were leaving early enough to allow for the latter of the two. We rang the bell of our "landlord" to return our keys. She had just as much energy and was just as talkative as the first time we met her (I concluded it wasn't my exhaustion from earlier; she really was this bubbly all the time). She asked about our stay and where we went and what we had the time for. She said multiple times we should have stayed longer and we full heartily agreed. She asked where we were going next and if we knew where to catch our bus. We told her we didn't quite know, but had the plans to figure it out. She laughed as if that was a preposterous plan and invited us in so she could direct us properly. She led us into her flat as if we were friends. Her son, about 6 I would say, was quietly playing with a train set on the floor of their living room. Their flat was beautiful. Modern, white decor accenting the old charms of original hardwood flooring and large picture windows with thick elaborately carved molding. It looked and felt just like something you see in a movie. Perfectly matched furniture, clean, ideal, and if I don't sound too cliche, "European".
We gave her the address of the bus depot and she had to rack her brain for a minute or so trying to see if she could recall from memory where that would be. She couldn't. She whipped out a map from the wall length, ceiling height book shelf. She began scouring the map as if this were her own route. You could tell it was driving her crazy that she couldn't figure out where this bus depot was hiding. She admitting this was becoming quite the mission, and she wasn't going to give up. The doorbell rang, so she had to excuse herself for a moment. She informed us some repairmen were coming so she needed to show them what needed to be done. We sat awkwardly in her dining room while we waited. The book shelf was an easy thing to study without being intrusive. She spoke English and Dutch, maybe other languages too. She had quite a bit of philosophy type books and what looked to be self-help ones too. Books that looked like classic reads. Nothing trendy or shallow, so it seemed. A lot of them were in Dutch, so I could be wrong. But by the spines, the letter, the book covers, they all appeared to be quite the deep read. It made me appreciate her more. She seemed well educated and genuine. It took her quite some time, and we were getting nervous about the nearing departure time since we still didn't have a direction to go. She came hopping down the stairs waving a paper. "I found it! I had to cheat and use Google, because it's out in the middle of nowhere!" She showed us the directions she printed- all in Dutch. "How does that look? Do you understand where you need to go?" I didn't want to admit it was still so confusing, so I said yes. She probably sensed the need for clarification, or she was just one of those people that liked to be doubly sure- so she explained it step by step anyway. Thankfully.
It was an easy trip. Hop the metro, head to Central Station, catch a city bus, and head all the way to the edge of Amsterdam. Once the city stopped looking like anything we had seen downtown, we would know we were nearing the bus depot.
It was bare out by the bus depot. No exciting buildings, no canals or bikes. There were some large industry buildings, freight train loading areas, desolate plains. I think I remembered some modern wind mills, but I can't seem to clearly recall now.
The bus depot had one little "check in" booth the size of a Dutch Bros coffee stand. The bus depot itself was just a giant parking lot with a ton of buses parked sporadically.
There were signs that pointed in directions to different lots and different zones. We headed toward our "zone" and realized we were about an hour early. We waited a lot on the trip.
Waiting for transportation, that is. We couldn't afford to risk being late, that would mess up quite a string of things. There were benches to sit on, outside. We sat and waited like the others who had arrived before us.
After about a half hour, a man dressed in what we could assume was a uniform signifying he was our bus driver, walked up to our waiting area. He was very tall. Husky. Long curly hair to the middle of his back. Dark sunglasses sitting on a broad face. Smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee (or at least, what I hoped was coffee). He strongly reminded me of Penn Jillette or maybe Meatloaf. He waited right along with us until exactly 12 when he was scheduled to allow us on the bus.Not a minute before.
As we waited for the clearance to board the bus, a van pulled up. 3 middle eastern men unloaded a giant box very carefully. They waddled unsteadily to a bench behind us to the far left,
away from our peripheral vision. It would be too obvious if we turned around to watch what more was happening. The box was made of slats of wood. You could slightly see between the slats, revealing an overflowing amount of pink bubble wrap. The kind with the largest of bubbles. The kind you want to lay all about the floor to dance upon creating a unique beat of clicks and pops. Whatever was in that box was mighty fragile and mighty heavy. 1 of the men left the other two waited to board the bus. We exchanged some whispers both agreeing it would be unnerving if they were on our bus.
Sure, you can accuse me of a bit of racial profiling, I don't even feel bad about it. The two men didn't smile, at least the glances I did catch of them, I never saw a soft facial expression.
We lost interest in our dramatic assumptions and began chatting quieting to each other, Chris and I. As we talked, one of the men began to wander slowly in our direction, stopping directly behind us. He lit a cigarette and hovered closely for what seemed forever. Chris motioned for me to stop talking- I assumed it was because I was speaking in English. I muttered a few sentences in french and he seemed slightly relieved. We sat quietly (because I know very little French and Chris even less- so no conversation could be had). The man remained behind us. Not moving. His buddy yelled something to him in a harsh tone and he wandered back to their big box. No luggage, just the big box. Meatloaf Penn signaled we could begin loading up. We snatched up our bags as quickly as possible. It's not a graceful process for me to pick up my pack and go. It's an awkward ordeal of heaving and hoeing and
throwing weight to one side to balance while I try to find the arm hole of my bag while keeping my coat from bunching up under the pack. I wasn't quick. It had to have been humorous. And I hated it. Each and every of the 500 times I had to do it, it was quite the commotion. Sometimes the finger of my glove would get caught somewhere and it would take tugging and uncanny bends of my arms to re-situate enough to get it unstuck with my hand still in it. Backpacking was a romantic notion. It sounded unconventional and appealing in the forefront, but in reality, it was quite the nuisance. I would have still called what we did "backpacking" even if we had used more mobile luggage such as rolling suitcases. The concept of backpacking was more about hopping from place to place with spontaneity rather than the actual act of carrying a stupid back pack. But something about my backpack made me feel less of a tourist and more tough, I suppose. Even under all that weight, after all the jumping and twisting I had
to do to put it on, I felt rugged. Adventurous.
We put our packs under the bus and boarded. The bus was very nice and pretty spacious. The seats were comfy and we even had a little tray in front of us as well as foot rests.
No greyhound bus was even close to this cush. Maybe this bus ride wouldn't be so bad after all. We sat in the seats next to the bathroom, which meant we had more room for our legs to stretch out. The bathroom was actually "downstairs". This bus was a bit of a double decker. We sat above, the driver sat below with a few rows of seats and then the bathroom was midway through the bus. It took about 5 stairs to reach the little cubbyhole water closet. It was small, but adequate. Similar to an airplane bathroom. We got settled in and began staring back at our original concern. That box and its owners. There was only one guy with the box now. His buddy seemed to have disappeared. Chris said he would be more nervous if only 1 of the original 3 boarded. I spoke the only bit of logic I could think of "A bus to Paris with mostly French and Dutch people can NOT be the target of anything more than some road rage at worst. I'm sure whatever they are doing, it's fine. Worst case scenario, they are transporting something less than legal to be used in a better fashion
rather than a bus en-route to Paris." We both knew we were still interested in how this suspicious thing would play out. The single guy carried that giant box from where he had been standing toward the bus. I can only assume what happened next. There was quite a bit of chatter- in a language I didn't understand. Back and forth- questions and answers- you could tell by the fluctuations in tone.
More chatter with stronger tones. And... I don't think they ended up getting on the bus. I never saw them the rest of the trip. Maybe I did and just didn't recognize them without their cryptic box.
But I'm fairly, at least partially, certain they didn't end up riding. We find it slightly funny now. Our concern. Our attention to try and fill in the blanks to a possibly
suspicious but probably not suspicious situation. On our trip, we had an Irish priest tell us that he felt like Americans were so paranoid. And, this moment, proved it. We are. With or without reason, we just are. Our airports prove it too.
We traveled by train, bus, boat and plane- and never encountered the pat down force search in which we experienced in the American airports. We were traveling from country to country, but they didn't seem to care. They didn't even stamp my passport
in every country. (Which honestly was a bit disappointing because I was really hoping to rough that crisp new document up a bit while trekking all over Europe. Unfortunately, I think I got a total of 3 stamps out of the 6 countries we traversed.)
The bus began to move and we felt the excitement of heading to a new place rise up in our bellies. Although that could have also just been hunger left lingering in the bottom of our stomachs from a skimpy hasty breakfast. We listened intently to understand where the next stop would be. We had been so focused on getting to the obscure location of the bus park that we didn't pack water or lunch for the trip. We had had a light breakfast of the remains from what we purchased at the grocery store, but it was just some meats and cheese and crackers. We couldn't make out much of the jumbled information broadcast over the crackly intercom. Hopefully, somewhere in his mumbling between French and English he was saying we would have a break along the route. The ride itself wasn't bad. We read. We played on our phones. We talked. We looked out the window at the scenery. We slept. Then we looked at the time- only 2 hours had passed. Oy. I decided to use the restroom. Even though I hadn't had anything to drink.
It was a way of passing time I suppose, a way to stretch my legs, a way to change scenery. I don't know. Using the bathroom in a moving bus takes a bit of balance, which I don't have. The bus jerked and swayed and bumped and turned sharply. It was...entertaining. The toilet paper was near empty. Thankfully, because I was just killing time and using this as an excuse to get up out of my seat, I barely needed any (too much information?). But I knew, on a trip lasting 5 more hours, the remaining 7 squares were NOT going to last. I made my way up the stairs from the little "break room" and back to my seat.
A guy went in after me. When he was finished, he had some trouble closing the door. He finally just slammed it shut and moved along. A girl came shortly after. I wanted to warn her of the possibility there was no toilet paper, but I didn't.
Instead, she couldn't open the door. She tried and tried. I decided to use this moment as excuse #2 to get up out of my seat. I tried to open the door too and couldn't. I'm guessing the door trouble the gentlemen before us had was--- he locked it! She seemed defeated like any girl would if she really had to go and couldn't. I felt bad for her. But she just returned to her seat. I wanted to suggest she go ask the driver for a key, but I worried she didn't speak English. Eh, it probably saved her from the problem she would have encountered with the toilet paper anyway. I figured, when we stopped I would mention something to the driver. (about the locked door and the toilet paper- hoping I wouldn't be blamed for either).
Hour 3.5 came right about Brussels, Belgium. We were stopping there to pick up more travelers. I sighed a big breath of relief for the upcoming break. We wove in and out of interesting buildings, cars, streets and people sewing deeper and deeper into the city. Looking at a new place, trying to soak in as much of the cityscape as possible
as the bus sped along took my mind off my ever growing desire for food and water and the opportunity to stretch my legs. We arrived at the "bus station" which looked more like a mall entrance. There were great looking food places all around. The first announcement to come over the faulty intercom system was, DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS-
WE ARE PICKING UP PASSENGERS AT THIS TIME ONLY. A few other things were muttered about a future stop and where our break would take place. I slightly panicked, but I reasoned that we would still get our break. No one is that heartless to force riders to stay put for more than 4 hours, right?
Passengers loaded onto the bus, completely filling every seat. The atmosphere instantly changed from a quiet, comfortable ride, to a packed, stuffy one. I could smell the rain from their wet coats, hair and scarves. It made the once clean, circulating air seem so--- dense and stifling. Before, the bus had over half the seats empty. Now every single one was occupied. More than ever, I was wanting this break. I was done gazing with the hour introduction to Brussels. I wanted off the bus. I wanted to eat. I wanted water. But- to my dismay as quickly as the bus loaded, the bus began to depart. I was hoping there was maybe a planned stop just down the road, you know, someplace less crowded, less busy. I figured that was smart of the driver to take us to a less congested area to take a break. I decided I would be a bit more patient to let the driver do his deal. He knew what we was doing, regardless of what his mess of hair said about him. I tried to let the thought go, to just wait without waiting. I tried to think about things OTHER than food and water. Half hour passed. Then an hour. We had now been on the bus for 5 hours with no water and no food and a locked bathroom door with a dangerously low toilet paper supply. I figured maybe the driver was going to stop at a "midway" point between the last stop and our final stop, that seemed reasonable, I suppose. We kept busing along. We cruised quickly, zipping in and out of traffic as if we were a just another car. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with this heartless Meatloaf guy I would have given him props for his dexterity in driving. I had actually noticed in all the buses we rode thus far, the drivers were, in my mind, extremely talented. They whipped around tight little corners, bolted down one lane width streets, and parked as if they were no bigger than a fiat. MULTIPLE times I was certain we would hit a pole or at least jump the curb as the driver cut in between items I myself would have been nervous to navigate with just my car. They drove dangerously close to other vehicles without a flinch. They were fast and precise. None of the words I am using currently would describe any of my bus experiences in the States. Precise. Bolt. Whip. Dexterity. Nope. These words describe the geometric and physics masterminds that have ever so perfectly calculated each angle and curve along with their speed. They seemed to know the dimensions of their big old bus better than I know the dimensions of my big old hips. After 28 years of knowing my body, I still have trouble clearing corners without a massive hit and run collision.
We pulled off the main interstate and started driving down a winding side road. It headed toward a rest area. I felt some glee rising up. I felt a bit of joy starting to tickle my pallet. Water! Maybe even food! A bathroom with enough toilet paper for all! Or at least most! We drove by the rest area. My overly optimistic mind said “don’t worry, he’s taking you to a better place. That rest area looked gross, and vending-machine-less. Just you wait. Just you wait to see how smart this bus driver is.”
I didn’t get to see the smarts of the bus driver. Ever again. IN FACT, that bus driver was taking a detour to some hotel, where he in turn got off and traded with a different driver. That was it. Just a captain's trade off. Penn was off to his comfy hotel and a new guy, looking exactly opposite of him was taking over. The two greeted each other as if they were brothers. They laughed. Hugged. Talked. Said hellos and goodbyes like this was a joy ride. The new, short, skinny driver got on the bus to assume business as usual. And that was that. We headed back to the interstate as if stopping hadn’t even crossed the mind of either driver. Maybe I was supposed to push some sort of button. Maybe someone was supposed to ask to have the privilege to a break from the cramped ride. Maybe the driver assumed no one wanted one. Maybe, just maybe, it was somewhere on the booking website that I was supposed to plan sufficiently for a long bus ride and that is why everyone else seemed to have ample fluids and snacks to keep them happy. Well, I finally gave up on the idea of stopping. I resigned to journaling and interspersing a few games of Plague between thoughts. I’m a viral and bacterial champion, so unfortunately, killing off the population wasn’t as exciting as when I first started the game. (If you have no idea to what I’m referring, look up Plague Inc on Google and you will realize I’m not a terrorist… mostly.)
I would be lying if the rest of the trip just floated on by after I gave in to the fact that we would not be stopping until our final destination. We reached the very outskirts of Paris long after night had blackened the sky. We were greeted with the glow of a million taillights in the worst traffic jam I’d seen since an incident on I5 in 2008. (That incident was memorable for it’s multitude of uncomfy factors as well.) Of course traffic would make this already unpleasant trip longer. We weren’t anxious to get anywhere. (Yes, we were) We had the patience to spare. (No, we didn’t!) As I’ve mentioned many times, Europe is just different than America. Driving, eating, patience, customer service, daily interactions. All different. Well, in this moment, I didn’t feel like it was different. I felt like I was back at home, in some unnecessary, unexplainable waste of time with no feelings of magic or peace. Just the inability to continue on. Prevented from moving forward. Anxious to get to where we were headed, even though we were on no schedule other than our own- put in place by circumstantial discomforts. I didn’t like that mixture of internal responses rising up in me- impatient expectation sprinkled all over discontent. Had I not been learning anything? Was I already throwing what I loved about this foreign land out the window? Regardless of all that was happening, there was reason to rest. There was reason to be patient. There was reason for positive thoughts and a boost of stamina to hang in there til the end. I had the opportunity to be the “different” I say the people of this place are- and I sure was NOT taking it.
That little mental pep talk helped calm me down. Sure, I had justification for my annoyance. But who cares about whether the emotion is justified or not! I don’t want to BE what I dislike. And I dislike impatient, demanding people. I dislike people who can’t make the best of a poor situation. I dislike complaining. So, I made a point, in my brain, to consciously move away from the tendencies of old and try a new reaction on for size. I would get there when I got there. I would look out the window and study the city lights, because they were so beautiful. I would look at my husband and get all sentimental- because- WE. ARE. IN. PARIS (at least I was pretty sure we were on the edge of the magical city). I would look into the windows of the stopped cars beside us, study the people within. (I don’t care if that’s considered creepy. I do it.) Maybe I would rest my eyes. Maybe I would journal more. Maybe...I would just enjoy. I’m in Europe for Pete’s sake! You can’t get much luckier.
The stop and go traffic carried on. And on. And on. We sat on the same road for as long as I can remember. Rain pouring. Stomach growling. Mouth watering. Time ticking. I kept checking the time (which gave away I still had a skosh of nagging impatience resting upon my shoulders). I remember thinking when the clock struck 7, “We could have been deboarding right now.” I wondered how far we actually were from the bus station. It would have been helpful had the driver given an update or some sort of blip of information about our estimated time of arrival. Even our distance TO arrival would have been helpful. For all I knew, I could have just ASSUMED this was Paris and been way off. Then again that update, that smidgen of information, was craved by the very emotion I was trying to remove from myself. I wanted to really understand the meaning of the word “embrace”. There was nothing I could do to alter this circumstance, so the only altering needed to be done was on my perspective. No one else seemed to be squirming with this impatience thing. Then again, no other Americans were aboard. At some point you may get sick of the comparisons. American versus European. I can understand that might get old. But this trip was to explore another culture. Comparison is part of observation. Comparison is part of understanding. And comparison, ultimately, is part of growing. Good from bad. Old from new. American culture is, in my opinion, consumed with some seriously mixed up priorities. I carry that culture within me because that is where I am from. But as I grow, I try to shed that. I try to remove what I dislike about where I am from to become a being that is from everywhere. Influenced, but not completely shaped by, where I live. Influenced, but not completely shaped by, what I’ve experienced. Influenced, but not completely shaped by ANYTHING other than my own artistic rendition of it all. The number one difference I notice everywhere is there is no hurry or at least the irritated hurry. There is no hustle bustle in Europe like there is in America. They take life as it is- embrace. This bus trip made me wrestle with that concept. Ideally, I’d say, I’m not a part of that cultural ideology. Rush, rush, rush. Time is money. But, this bus trip is revealing I AM part of that group of movers, rushers, bustlers and hustlers. No better place to battle a life concept than in a magical land, right?
So I don’t drag this part of the story on and make it as equally long and dreadful as the actual bus trip, I will skip to the arriving part. We got there. Safe. Still alive. Undamaged in any way. (This is what saving 200 euros looks like- priceless life lessons.)
We got off the bus, trying to move with the crowd, but struggling with limbs that felt more like rubber than skin and bone. Wobbling along gathering our packs and our sense of “what next”, we searched for our next mode of transportation. Chris looked at his gps and commented the hotel was only about a mile and a half away. We could walk that- easy. We didn’t have the motivation to walk that, though. Along the street, dozens of yellow and black cabbies were parked waiting for customers. They likely were going to charge us more than the car ride was worth, but never had we been more eager to spend an unnecessary amount of money than that moment. The first cab driver tried to ignore Chris’ English. He sat in his car, staring straight ahead. Chris cleared his throat and spoke loud enough that the man couldn’t ignore him, he looked at Chris unimpressed. He uttered a short “NO”. He didn’t even look at our gps for the address. He looked away, and that was our cue to move on. The next cab driver responded immediately with “No English”. He didn’t take the time to examine the address on the gps either. I can’t remember the 3rd cabbie’s response, but it was a negative one. All three made it very clear they were uninterested in helping someone who spoke English. Interesting when the table is turned, when YOU’RE the odd one out and being discriminated against. I have no entitlement to their help or liking. I don’t even mind if they care for us or not. But I suppose I was taken back by the disregard for us because of the language we spoke. Because we were “foreigners”. I’ve never really had that happen before. I’m white. But now, I understand. My husband has tried to explain it before. He’s not white. I always thought he just had a different perspective on things. But it never really sank in like that moment forced it to sink in. Hopefully, I remember that feeling for future references, though. I never want to treat another that way. If I have in the past, I regretted it in that moment.
I toggled between frustration toward the snobby French and worry that walking was going to be our only option. I had something more predominant than my mind guiding me though. Despite the lack of water, I desperately needed a bathroom. Across the street from the massive bus parking lot and the French nationalist taxi cars there was a shopping mall. People were hustling more so out the doors, than in. I didn't care, I would find a bathroom open or closed. We walked with such determination, but it didn't distract me from the stares and glances I would catch.I felt frumpy, the looks made it worse. The mall was upscale. I saw the shoppers in their suits and black fashion and shiny shoes. They saw me in my wrinkled dress, my dusty stockings and boots and my drifter pack. Flat hair, smeared makeup. This contrast made me a tad more grumpy. We marched through the mall as if we knew where the bathrooms were, but we didn't. We just followed an outside wall hoping it would lead us to one. We were walking so far, it probably would have been more efficient to just head toward our hotel. But the decision had already been made. Going back now would just make everything feel more unsatisfying. We started following little signs posted at the ceiling of the walls with little men and little women on them. Safe to say those symbols are international ones. After many turns and corners and hallways, dodging hoards of traffic the opposite direction, we found the final cove to where the bathroom was built. A huge line of women clogged the entire entry way. Of course! I couldn't decide if I was going to wait out of rebellion or leave out of rebellion. I was so done with this day. Chris could tell I was defeated. He couldn't tell which way my defeat would run either. I'm certain he wanted to say, "Rosie, lets just give up and head to the hotel like we should have in the first place." He didn't say it. Even if there was truth in it, he kept quiet. That did us both a slight favor. My grumpiness would have responded poorly to the truth.
The women were so crowded around the doorway I didn't notice the door had been closed the entire time until they all started to siphon out of the little cubby area. The door, in fact, was locked. Turns out, I would not be getting the bathroom with my original determination "open or closed". It was time for me to admit I was wasting our time. So I did admit it. Probably not in the nicest way one could admit a mistake, but I admitted it. Chris finally gave in to all the things wearing him down as well and showed off his grumpiness, too. I should have been more aware that he was also with out food, water, bathroom and other comforts all day too. It should have been obvious I wasn't the only one desperately trying to escape this rough day. The men's bathroom across the cove was also locked. Had it not been, I would have been in it. We began tracing the millions of steps we took in the wrong direction to get back on track to finding our hotel room. We bickered. About stupid things. How to walk. Where to turn. Who was more desperate for what. It was comical, really. The mini meltdown. I wasn't ready to say "I hate you, Paris." Not yet. But I felt the feeling begin to sneak in. Just a little bit of contempt for the dirty, snobby romance capitol. No love. My eyes were tearing up with the budding hate. I didn't want to cry. I wasn't going to. But Paris was being so mean. So heartless. I could have cried, and had good reason. But I didn't.
The mall was at least 4 stories. 2 stories that led to bus stops and the underground metro. People were rushing in all directions leaving and finding the rest of their shopping crew and then leaving more. It was intense. People shoving and nearly crawling over escalators just to push their way through. The metro was a step in the right direction. Chris said there would be no faster way to be delivered to our hotel than the underground subway system. Figuring it out, that was the trick. We bought tickets. They were 3 euros a piece, I think. It took forever to get the machine to accept our credit card. At least 3 separate tries. Restarting everything from beginning to end. I wanted to bang on the damn machine but who knows what kind of consequences that held. We looked at the map and the routes ourselves. We wanted to decipher it on our own. But we couldn't. We asked the front desk lady for help. She seemed annoyed. She went and got another employee to answer our questions. While Chris talked I looked around. I had never been in an underground subway before. Everything was concrete grey. Dirt and litter everywhere. Peeling ads and safety posters were the only color. Some kiosks for ticket purchase. The front desk hidden behind layers of bullet proof glass (just a guess). 6 lanes of very narrow entry gates. They were all locked unless someone walked up, put their ticket in and then it let them pass. I noticed you could go right or left after the entry gate let you through. I didn't think to wonder why. Chris got the information he needed. We went through the skinny entry lane with some awkwardness from our bulky uncooperating packs. We went right.
We went through many cement and brick hallways, stairways and corridors. Every so often you would see signs for other subway lines heading in opposing directions. The number 1 line exit to the left or the number 6 line exit to the right. We were looking for the number 2 line. The very last one, come to discover.
The very orange lighting made the underground halls look dungeon-like. Interesting ad posters entertained us as we walked, waiting to reach our platform. We finally saw signs giving us hope we were near. We took the appropriate exit of stairs digging us deeper into the ground to meet our train. The platform was packed with people, lined where they assumed (or knew from experience) that the doors would be. In my head, I guessed this was like a bus stop. You get there and end up waiting a good 15 minutes (if not more) and the time of arrival was very dependent upon whether the transport was on time or not. I was quite wrong. The train came within a minute of standing. As I boarded, I noticed a lighted sign stating the next train would be arriving in 4 minutes. Convenient.
We shuffled; small steps in keeping to the crowd of people all flowing into the small doorways. It was a quick ebb and flow. People spewed out, people rushed back on. For as many as there were going both directions, I would have thought it to be more…..clumsy. But it was smooth. Like an ocean wave. Forceful. Direct. Unified and graceful like a congealed liquid. In one second, out the other. Continuously spreading in all directions as time passed. I don’t know how we were lucky enough to find a seat. I sat, while Chris stood holding to a nearby pole. We were so tired our gaze latched to one area and we both found ourselves zoning out. The next stop came in less than a minute. The stop name was announced and a little light showed up on a map near the roof of the train to notate where you were in reference to where you had been and where you were headed. Our luck would have it- we were headed in the wrong direction. (Left is the direction we should have chosen at the entrance.)Our lazy daze was instantly broken, and we were back into hustled determination mode. Adrenaline pumped us out of the doors quickly and we began trying to figure out how to get to the other side of the tracks. We climbed the stairs leading us back into the cement tunnels (same scenery as before, just a different dot on the map). I couldn’t believe this day. I mean, it’s chalked up as an adventure in my memory now, but at the time- I was this close to fleeing Paris for good. But I couldn’t because I was too exhausted to get that rebellious. I was whipped into submission to just keep going- one step at a time. I can’t proudly boast that I had a good attitude the whole time. I can’t even really call myself a trooper. Because Chris will boldly pop that ideal bubble of nonsense. I was whiny. I was limping. I was grumpy. I was bossy. I really don’t like admitting all that. But then again, I don’t understand why not. I know better than to think people view me as this complacent, vanilla flavored sweetheart of a girl. I drug my whiny, limping, bossy derriere through the tunnels trying not to cry. One more thing gone wrong and I was definitely going to abandon my age and revert to a 5 year old. Tantrum. Tears. Tumultuous event.
We figured out the configuration of the tunnel system after, of course, a few wrong turns and repaying to re-enter and ride (which later we found out we DIDN’T have to do, if we had known what we were doing). This time, the platform was quite empty. We waited the 3 minutes remaining, and boarded the next train as if the last 30 minutes hadn’t happened. We found our seats and tried to re-enter a state of daze. My blood pressure was lowering. I was in acceptance of everything for the moment. We were headed in the right direction, we were nearing our hotel- all would be well soon enough.
At the next stop (dejavu), a woman with a karaoke machine strapped to some sort of cart via duct tape boarded. Her contraption was accessorized with two red solo cups on each side of the cart (also duct taped). They read in sloppy sharpy- TIPS. She smiled a lot. She bent down to push a button and grabbed a microphone. The tinny twang of a terrible instrumental version of “La Bomba” started playing. I normally don’t get too involved in how strangers conduct themselves in public. Do whatever you want. The lady started singing. Loudly. She stood only about 10 feet from me. I wish I had had the ability to find this interesting form of begging comical. But in that moment, after all that had been stacking up in my day, my brain found no humor in this extremely annoying and unsolicited “entertainment”. I was tempted to provide her a tip to STOP. I wanted silence to lose myself in; not a hated, unforgettable tune. I feared the catchy song would take over my weakened and wearied mind and haunt me for hours. I never knew how much I hated the song La Bomba until that day. She finished her song and began walking around asking for tips as if she had done everyone a favor. Honestly, I am not usually this bitter about something so harmless. In the moment, I was close to questioning the universe as to whether this was some intentional and cruel trick being played on me. The irony of each little thing stacking up on top of the other to build this ferociously awful day couldn’t all be a coincidence, could it? I felt bad for ever complaining about a “bad day” prior. This easily topped the charts. No one gave the C rate singer or her solo red cups any reason to stay, so at the next stop, she deboarded. Tough crowd. I’m sure she planned to attempt her talents to a new audience in the next 4 minutes.
Our stop came shortly thereafter. I could feel my frustration subsiding, because I had this theory that the worst was behind us. The rest was smooth sailing for this ship. We entered the city air from underground and I felt some accomplishment. We had about 10 blocks to hike. That was nothing. We were on the final stretch to what would be the most gratitude I’ve ever shown for a hotel in my life. The air was quite chilly now, it was pitch black. A few clouds lingered in the sky. Grey, seemingly glowing, wisps of odd shapes. One resembled a perfect heart. Not resembled in the way you sometimes see a shape that reminds you of a turtle or a dragon or whatever else you see in the sky. But resembled in the obvious way. It was a clear-cut heart. I pointed it out to Chris. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. That moment was the most perfect of the day. Thankfully I had enough love in my own heart to embrace it. I felt the mounds of frustration, anxiety, and stress melting. My hunger and thirst were tolerable. My itchy nylons and aching feet were not dominating my thoughts. I could enjoy this final walk.
We reached the hotel. I was near childlike giddy. The lobby to the hotel was beautiful. Shiny black counters and shiny white floors. Black and white and silver and purple everywhere. Purple chairs and a plush purple rug. The black walls with white crown molding looked so sleek. The hotel desk manager greeted us cheerfully. The first smile and light vocal tone we had heard in almost 12 hours(I absolutely do not count the karaoke beggar). I was ecstatic. Chris gave them our information and they paused awkwardly. "I'm sorry Mr. Bueford, we don't see a reservation for you." This would have been a completely legitimate situation to continue our terrible day. It would have made sense if that was what had happened. But I’m just kidding. That didn’t happen. They got us our keys and we were in the elevator headed to floor 2- OUR. ROOM.
The room was splendid. Big, fluffy white bed. Down comforter so poofy you sank several inches deep. Down pillows. Dark walls. Modern fixtures. BATHROOM. WATER. RELIEF. We cleaned up. Freshened up. Bathroomed. Watered. Showered. Did whatever we could to cleanse ourselves from the day and muster up enough energy to hunt down food. Room service wasn’t really an option due to overpriced, unappealing choices. We opted to walk a few blocks outside our hotel to find something more interesting.We had to walk back the way we had just came. I wasn’t even frustrated about that. I was absolutely willing to do it. I wanted food. By this time though, if I was being real honest, I was so used to going without food I wasn’t all that hungry. It was more the principle of the thing. I was going to get nutrition if it killed me. Ironically serious.
We turned onto a side street that hosted a slew of unique and intriguing restaurants and bakeries. It looked fabulous. Unfortunately, as late as it was, most were closed. (It was close to midnight by now.) Their windows were the story tellers of what was inside. The draperies, decorations hiding in the dark, types of tables and chairs featured- all of them told a beautiful tale of the atmosphere during business hours. Menus posted on every door uncovered secrets the dark windows left hanging in the air. We made a mental wish list of places we wanted to visit when they were open.
There was a Dominoes Pizza on the corner. Chris and I instantly headed that direction without even feeling guilty about it. No hesitation from either. It was if we both understood how perfectly that cheap pizza place would satisfy our needs. Under normal circumstances, I would have been completely against such an atrocious choice while in a culinary legend of a place as Paris. But, I will admit, I wasn’t up for any more “adventure”. I was desperately craving comfort. Home type comfort. Dominoes offered such a perfect combination of ease and familiarity that we couldn’t turn down. So. Our first night in Paris was spent scarfing pizza in a room we had an inflated appreciation for while watching The League (TV Show on Netflix) on my phone. It was the most indulgent evening yet. After the most awful day yet.
Waiting for transportation, that is. We couldn't afford to risk being late, that would mess up quite a string of things. There were benches to sit on, outside. We sat and waited like the others who had arrived before us.
After about a half hour, a man dressed in what we could assume was a uniform signifying he was our bus driver, walked up to our waiting area. He was very tall. Husky. Long curly hair to the middle of his back. Dark sunglasses sitting on a broad face. Smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee (or at least, what I hoped was coffee). He strongly reminded me of Penn Jillette or maybe Meatloaf. He waited right along with us until exactly 12 when he was scheduled to allow us on the bus.Not a minute before.
As we waited for the clearance to board the bus, a van pulled up. 3 middle eastern men unloaded a giant box very carefully. They waddled unsteadily to a bench behind us to the far left,
away from our peripheral vision. It would be too obvious if we turned around to watch what more was happening. The box was made of slats of wood. You could slightly see between the slats, revealing an overflowing amount of pink bubble wrap. The kind with the largest of bubbles. The kind you want to lay all about the floor to dance upon creating a unique beat of clicks and pops. Whatever was in that box was mighty fragile and mighty heavy. 1 of the men left the other two waited to board the bus. We exchanged some whispers both agreeing it would be unnerving if they were on our bus.
Sure, you can accuse me of a bit of racial profiling, I don't even feel bad about it. The two men didn't smile, at least the glances I did catch of them, I never saw a soft facial expression.
We lost interest in our dramatic assumptions and began chatting quieting to each other, Chris and I. As we talked, one of the men began to wander slowly in our direction, stopping directly behind us. He lit a cigarette and hovered closely for what seemed forever. Chris motioned for me to stop talking- I assumed it was because I was speaking in English. I muttered a few sentences in french and he seemed slightly relieved. We sat quietly (because I know very little French and Chris even less- so no conversation could be had). The man remained behind us. Not moving. His buddy yelled something to him in a harsh tone and he wandered back to their big box. No luggage, just the big box. Meatloaf Penn signaled we could begin loading up. We snatched up our bags as quickly as possible. It's not a graceful process for me to pick up my pack and go. It's an awkward ordeal of heaving and hoeing and
throwing weight to one side to balance while I try to find the arm hole of my bag while keeping my coat from bunching up under the pack. I wasn't quick. It had to have been humorous. And I hated it. Each and every of the 500 times I had to do it, it was quite the commotion. Sometimes the finger of my glove would get caught somewhere and it would take tugging and uncanny bends of my arms to re-situate enough to get it unstuck with my hand still in it. Backpacking was a romantic notion. It sounded unconventional and appealing in the forefront, but in reality, it was quite the nuisance. I would have still called what we did "backpacking" even if we had used more mobile luggage such as rolling suitcases. The concept of backpacking was more about hopping from place to place with spontaneity rather than the actual act of carrying a stupid back pack. But something about my backpack made me feel less of a tourist and more tough, I suppose. Even under all that weight, after all the jumping and twisting I had
to do to put it on, I felt rugged. Adventurous.
We put our packs under the bus and boarded. The bus was very nice and pretty spacious. The seats were comfy and we even had a little tray in front of us as well as foot rests.
No greyhound bus was even close to this cush. Maybe this bus ride wouldn't be so bad after all. We sat in the seats next to the bathroom, which meant we had more room for our legs to stretch out. The bathroom was actually "downstairs". This bus was a bit of a double decker. We sat above, the driver sat below with a few rows of seats and then the bathroom was midway through the bus. It took about 5 stairs to reach the little cubbyhole water closet. It was small, but adequate. Similar to an airplane bathroom. We got settled in and began staring back at our original concern. That box and its owners. There was only one guy with the box now. His buddy seemed to have disappeared. Chris said he would be more nervous if only 1 of the original 3 boarded. I spoke the only bit of logic I could think of "A bus to Paris with mostly French and Dutch people can NOT be the target of anything more than some road rage at worst. I'm sure whatever they are doing, it's fine. Worst case scenario, they are transporting something less than legal to be used in a better fashion
rather than a bus en-route to Paris." We both knew we were still interested in how this suspicious thing would play out. The single guy carried that giant box from where he had been standing toward the bus. I can only assume what happened next. There was quite a bit of chatter- in a language I didn't understand. Back and forth- questions and answers- you could tell by the fluctuations in tone.
More chatter with stronger tones. And... I don't think they ended up getting on the bus. I never saw them the rest of the trip. Maybe I did and just didn't recognize them without their cryptic box.
But I'm fairly, at least partially, certain they didn't end up riding. We find it slightly funny now. Our concern. Our attention to try and fill in the blanks to a possibly
suspicious but probably not suspicious situation. On our trip, we had an Irish priest tell us that he felt like Americans were so paranoid. And, this moment, proved it. We are. With or without reason, we just are. Our airports prove it too.
We traveled by train, bus, boat and plane- and never encountered the pat down force search in which we experienced in the American airports. We were traveling from country to country, but they didn't seem to care. They didn't even stamp my passport
in every country. (Which honestly was a bit disappointing because I was really hoping to rough that crisp new document up a bit while trekking all over Europe. Unfortunately, I think I got a total of 3 stamps out of the 6 countries we traversed.)
The bus began to move and we felt the excitement of heading to a new place rise up in our bellies. Although that could have also just been hunger left lingering in the bottom of our stomachs from a skimpy hasty breakfast. We listened intently to understand where the next stop would be. We had been so focused on getting to the obscure location of the bus park that we didn't pack water or lunch for the trip. We had had a light breakfast of the remains from what we purchased at the grocery store, but it was just some meats and cheese and crackers. We couldn't make out much of the jumbled information broadcast over the crackly intercom. Hopefully, somewhere in his mumbling between French and English he was saying we would have a break along the route. The ride itself wasn't bad. We read. We played on our phones. We talked. We looked out the window at the scenery. We slept. Then we looked at the time- only 2 hours had passed. Oy. I decided to use the restroom. Even though I hadn't had anything to drink.
It was a way of passing time I suppose, a way to stretch my legs, a way to change scenery. I don't know. Using the bathroom in a moving bus takes a bit of balance, which I don't have. The bus jerked and swayed and bumped and turned sharply. It was...entertaining. The toilet paper was near empty. Thankfully, because I was just killing time and using this as an excuse to get up out of my seat, I barely needed any (too much information?). But I knew, on a trip lasting 5 more hours, the remaining 7 squares were NOT going to last. I made my way up the stairs from the little "break room" and back to my seat.
A guy went in after me. When he was finished, he had some trouble closing the door. He finally just slammed it shut and moved along. A girl came shortly after. I wanted to warn her of the possibility there was no toilet paper, but I didn't.
Instead, she couldn't open the door. She tried and tried. I decided to use this moment as excuse #2 to get up out of my seat. I tried to open the door too and couldn't. I'm guessing the door trouble the gentlemen before us had was--- he locked it! She seemed defeated like any girl would if she really had to go and couldn't. I felt bad for her. But she just returned to her seat. I wanted to suggest she go ask the driver for a key, but I worried she didn't speak English. Eh, it probably saved her from the problem she would have encountered with the toilet paper anyway. I figured, when we stopped I would mention something to the driver. (about the locked door and the toilet paper- hoping I wouldn't be blamed for either).
Hour 3.5 came right about Brussels, Belgium. We were stopping there to pick up more travelers. I sighed a big breath of relief for the upcoming break. We wove in and out of interesting buildings, cars, streets and people sewing deeper and deeper into the city. Looking at a new place, trying to soak in as much of the cityscape as possible
as the bus sped along took my mind off my ever growing desire for food and water and the opportunity to stretch my legs. We arrived at the "bus station" which looked more like a mall entrance. There were great looking food places all around. The first announcement to come over the faulty intercom system was, DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS-
WE ARE PICKING UP PASSENGERS AT THIS TIME ONLY. A few other things were muttered about a future stop and where our break would take place. I slightly panicked, but I reasoned that we would still get our break. No one is that heartless to force riders to stay put for more than 4 hours, right?
Passengers loaded onto the bus, completely filling every seat. The atmosphere instantly changed from a quiet, comfortable ride, to a packed, stuffy one. I could smell the rain from their wet coats, hair and scarves. It made the once clean, circulating air seem so--- dense and stifling. Before, the bus had over half the seats empty. Now every single one was occupied. More than ever, I was wanting this break. I was done gazing with the hour introduction to Brussels. I wanted off the bus. I wanted to eat. I wanted water. But- to my dismay as quickly as the bus loaded, the bus began to depart. I was hoping there was maybe a planned stop just down the road, you know, someplace less crowded, less busy. I figured that was smart of the driver to take us to a less congested area to take a break. I decided I would be a bit more patient to let the driver do his deal. He knew what we was doing, regardless of what his mess of hair said about him. I tried to let the thought go, to just wait without waiting. I tried to think about things OTHER than food and water. Half hour passed. Then an hour. We had now been on the bus for 5 hours with no water and no food and a locked bathroom door with a dangerously low toilet paper supply. I figured maybe the driver was going to stop at a "midway" point between the last stop and our final stop, that seemed reasonable, I suppose. We kept busing along. We cruised quickly, zipping in and out of traffic as if we were a just another car. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with this heartless Meatloaf guy I would have given him props for his dexterity in driving. I had actually noticed in all the buses we rode thus far, the drivers were, in my mind, extremely talented. They whipped around tight little corners, bolted down one lane width streets, and parked as if they were no bigger than a fiat. MULTIPLE times I was certain we would hit a pole or at least jump the curb as the driver cut in between items I myself would have been nervous to navigate with just my car. They drove dangerously close to other vehicles without a flinch. They were fast and precise. None of the words I am using currently would describe any of my bus experiences in the States. Precise. Bolt. Whip. Dexterity. Nope. These words describe the geometric and physics masterminds that have ever so perfectly calculated each angle and curve along with their speed. They seemed to know the dimensions of their big old bus better than I know the dimensions of my big old hips. After 28 years of knowing my body, I still have trouble clearing corners without a massive hit and run collision.
We pulled off the main interstate and started driving down a winding side road. It headed toward a rest area. I felt some glee rising up. I felt a bit of joy starting to tickle my pallet. Water! Maybe even food! A bathroom with enough toilet paper for all! Or at least most! We drove by the rest area. My overly optimistic mind said “don’t worry, he’s taking you to a better place. That rest area looked gross, and vending-machine-less. Just you wait. Just you wait to see how smart this bus driver is.”
I didn’t get to see the smarts of the bus driver. Ever again. IN FACT, that bus driver was taking a detour to some hotel, where he in turn got off and traded with a different driver. That was it. Just a captain's trade off. Penn was off to his comfy hotel and a new guy, looking exactly opposite of him was taking over. The two greeted each other as if they were brothers. They laughed. Hugged. Talked. Said hellos and goodbyes like this was a joy ride. The new, short, skinny driver got on the bus to assume business as usual. And that was that. We headed back to the interstate as if stopping hadn’t even crossed the mind of either driver. Maybe I was supposed to push some sort of button. Maybe someone was supposed to ask to have the privilege to a break from the cramped ride. Maybe the driver assumed no one wanted one. Maybe, just maybe, it was somewhere on the booking website that I was supposed to plan sufficiently for a long bus ride and that is why everyone else seemed to have ample fluids and snacks to keep them happy. Well, I finally gave up on the idea of stopping. I resigned to journaling and interspersing a few games of Plague between thoughts. I’m a viral and bacterial champion, so unfortunately, killing off the population wasn’t as exciting as when I first started the game. (If you have no idea to what I’m referring, look up Plague Inc on Google and you will realize I’m not a terrorist… mostly.)
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