“I’m Clemente.”
I look at Clemente. Clemente is very hot, and very French.
“I’m Melody.” We shake hands and smile, sizing each other up the way we people do.
I’m on a double-decker, high speed super train from Paris to Barcelona and I just hit the passenger seat jackpot.
I craved freedom and adventure, but my old demons often hung around my ankles making me doubt myself, reminding me of the fall. Through my early twenties I struggled with depression and anxiety, experiences that leave scars that though are invisible to others, have you treat life more cautiously, having felt the fragility of your own.
As I recovered, the world seemed a more fearful place than before. I had seen a darkness in my own existence that ran so deep, I felt its echo wherever I went. How could anywhere be safe if my own mind wasn’t? I had lost all confidence in being in my own company, a place I then just filled with noise; the radio as I went to sleep, episodes of Friends playing in empty rooms, unsuitable boyfriends at the table. Fear is a funny thing- it can lead you places where you think you’re protecting yourself, when in fact you’re being boxed into smaller and smaller hiding places.
Out in Paris I give the demons a good, firm kick. “Fuck off.” I say to them under my breath. “I’m getting on the damn train.”
My walking, talking, French stranger-on-a-train-cliché buys me red wine and we talk for the entire 6 and half hour journey, covering art, philosophy, education and in hour number 3, his girlfriend (pah!) I forget to be scared, of the tunnels and mountains, of the 200mph, of being by myself when I get to my destination, I only see the beauty (no, not just of the French dude’s face) of the Pyrenees, of green luscious space that turns to a gorgeous burnt orange as we pass into Spain. “I’m back,” I whispered. “I’m back.”
The train boasts a comfort similar to that of a first class airplane, with superfluous amounts of legroom, plug sockets, a bar and TV, so we find ourselves watching a movie called The Spanish Apartment, about a French student moving to Barcelona to study, living with a mix of European students all trying to make sense of themselves and their education, spending happy days and drunken nights sitting in a beautiful plaza surrounded by palms trees and fountains. Clemente has seen this film countless times and is his favourite as he is now the French guy moving to Barcelona to study.
Our own experience of education, the working world and the unfriendly transition between the two seems to be a universal one. There is the tug of career, status and money, those measurable milestones that translate well to your parents and peers, versus the equal need to rebel against it to find something you actually want, though knowing what that is is a hurdle in itself. Your twenties seem to be driven by an unquenchable thirst for freedom while at the same time a desperation to be allowed onto the rat race, despite loathing the monotony of the daily grind that sees you getting off your face on a Friday by 7pm in an act of escape. What do you want? The most fundamental of questions, but often the most unanswerable.
His family are from a tiny island called Ille de Rey off La Rochelle, where each person has their role and their place on the farmland and in the household. His cousins know who they are, he tells me, because they know their purpose out on the land, everyone has their role in order for the unit to survive. He on the other hand, given the gift of freedom with scholarship education and opportunity to travel is the lost one. “Are we happier when our world is small then?” I ask him, looking out at the waters of Montpellier flying past, hurtling across countries and time borders. Neither of us say anything.
As the train pulls into Barcelona Clemente stares at me in the pause before we start gathering up the debris of our 6 hour adventure. “How strange we had so much to say to eachother.” He helps me with my backpack, laughing as we take our first breathe of Spanish air, the dry smell of dirt and heat letting me know I’m home.
"I’m going this way," he says, "and you?"
I have no clue where I’m going but want to work it out by myself, I don’t want to rob myself of this moment by following a boy around town. He waves goodbye as he heads for the metro and I wave back, grateful for the kindness of a stranger.
I never see him again. We are always searching for meaning in our encounters with each other, but sometimes the fleeting glimpse into a possibility is just as satisfying. We’re not on our own in our fears about what the hell we’re doing in life- the stranger next to you also carries the weight of life’s expectations and hopes. There’s no such thing as a stranger at all.
This, as it turned out, was a great philosophy to learn, as I was about to share a room in a hostel with 10 people, which as a number is the most amount of people I have ever shared a sleeping space with. I was about to find some friends for life among the beds of Kabul Hostel, but first I had to find the place.
“The Beach is this way yes?”
The bus driver shakes his head frantically, eyes wide in fear for my sense of geography.
“Nooo No, es por alli.” He points on the exact opposite direction.
I’m the last person on the bus which should have been a clue, and have somehow ended up in the suburban mountains of Barcelona rather than down by the harbour. Me and my backpack which weighs roughly the same weight as me, get off the bus and walk to the opposite side of the road waiting for the number 9. I’m lost, and I don’t care. I’m in Barcelona.
The madness of Las Ramblas is waiting for me and I weave my way through the crowds and street sellers using google maps on my iphone (good help my phone bill) but when I get to the hostel I’m momentarily confused. I know this square- have I been here before? I look around at the fountain and the beautiful palm trees, the cobbled square with people taking a moment from the heat. Then it clicks. It’s the Plaza in the movie I’ve just watched with Clemente, the Plaza where the young and lost came to sit, and here I am. I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in signs.
To Be Continued.....
@melodys_pen
“It’s fucking GREEN.” I shout at a Renault Clio opposite the Eiffel Tower. “VERT” I add for good measure (complete with French hand gestures), but the Renault Clio is unfazed, as are the two dozen Vespers that zoom around me as I hold onto my bladder, tiptoeing across the white lines of an apparently meaningless zebra crossing. The French really need to work out what they mean when it comes to green men.
“Am I missing something?” I ask my very French friend Juliette. Juliette is a PHD student in Paris. We did our Philosophy MA together in Kent. She’s very French.
“Green means that you can go,” she explains, “but the cars coming round the corner can go too.”
Well that makes perfect sense.
* * *
I quit my job. All the best adventures start this way, as do all the best stories, because if there’s no fear of an end you’ve just got sky and train tickets and with no job, neither of these things run out until you want them to.
Back on the coast of Kent I’ve carefully put together a life that’s beginning to resemble the picture I’ve long had in my head- I live on the beach next to an old fashioned ice- cream parlour, I own a bright red kayak that I take out on sunny days and own enough books to fill my whole apartment including the fireplace. I read and write and drink gin and tonics and nobody notices that I don’t go clubbing. Did I get old somewhere along these shores? I’m not sure if I mind too much, but comfort is not always the best thing for artistic integrity, and in the safety of my little life my pen has gone quiet. It’s not that I’m not moved to be creative, rather I just lose the need for it. My pen has saved my life a fair few times, but without a healthy dose of fear or suffering it seems the passion for the pages has become a hobby rather than a necessity. I miss that need. It’s the very foundation of me. It’s time to go.
Things I am afraid of:
Trains
Tunnels
Lifts
Being on my own in places
Panic attacks
Things I am off to do:
Trains
Tunnels
Lifts
Do it on my own
Have a friggin panic attack.
A good a list as any. As I plan these trains and tickets, various people that I like very much want to join in on different sections, so I end up with a balanced portion of being alone, travelling alone and being periodically saved across different borders by friends and family. Now it’s no trek across the Amazon, it’s no 3 month stint across Asia, (in fact it’s pretty much just France and Spain to be honest) but bravery is measured by the fear you feel before you jump on board - and I’m pooping my pants waiting for the Eurostar.
Paris. Mon Paris. How have I not been here before?? It’s quicker to get here than it is to get back to Essex for crying out loud. Big fat tunnel number one is a breeze due to the fact I booked a first class ticket and am drinking unlimited amounts of wine and something posh with salmon in it, and arrive in Paris with an air of confidence that sees me navigate the way to the hotel via bus. My fellow passengers on the number 38 appease my enthusiasm for the sights as they point out the Notre Dame and the hotel d’Ville as we fly past and I can’t stop myself- I’m gasping in delight and looking like a touristic nutter.
That’s the thing about Paris, the architecture is insane. Quite literally every time you turn there’s another ridiculously ornate monster of a building. You don’t feel you’re in the right century- a distinct lack of modernity in the centre leaves you with layers of fabulous finishes, of statues, gold, wealth, beauty, of sheer extravagance. London competes with itself constantly, to be the tallest, the newest, the shiniest, but Paris doesn’t bother, it’s all here in the stone and you feel you’ve been altered just wandering through it all.
My very French friend Juliette was the first friend I made at Kent as a post graduate, super clever and super clumsey, wild blonde hair and long limbs that tumble with every story told in her bright French accent. I quiz her about Paris – When was the French revolution? Did the Musee d’Orsay used to be a station? Why are there so many palaces? We talk about the French murdering the monarchy.
“All of our palaces are now museums for the people.” She tells me triumphantly.
“All of our museums are free.” I retort.
We watch the sun go down on the river Seine drinking warm cans of beer, willow trees dipping their leaves into the water as we bitch about how crazy Americans are with their gun laws and drinking laws, not noticing that the people tutting and huffing next to us are in fact U.S citizens. I decide to give myself a French get out of jail free card- namely, the French don’t give a shit.
The first leg of Le Grande Adventure includes a few girly days with my mother, eating shameless amounts of croissants and scoffing at the price of a cappuccino (5.50 Euros! What’s it made of? Magic beans?) and she helps me find a location that has been on my goal board for a long time.
Shakespeare and Co is a bookshop opposite the Notre Dame that has been a home and meeting place for writers and artists for decades, giving shelter and a place to stay for those looking for art and inspiration along the river. It was my plan B as a lost graduate: “I’ll just run away to Paris” I reasoned. And here I was.
It’s all very on-trend and popular, with the obligatory Japanese tourists taking pictures out the front, but it’s the bones of the place that capture me. Wooden beans and layers of books, old typewriters and well-worn desks laid out upstairs for anyone to use, and I think of the cut-out picture of this place on my wall at home. Sometimes something you wait for can disappoint you. But sometimes it’s even more magic than you hoped.
As I drop Ma Miller off at the Eurostar the next day I turn to enjoy my European freedom. I’m immediately lost. The bus I took doesn’t go back in the same direction and though I know I want to get back to the river this doesn’t quite help- there aren’t exactly signs for ‘The Thames’ in London and funny enough it’s the same here, so as I have nowhere to be and no time to measure I simply wander south, guessing that eventually I’ll hit the water or some impressive building that I recognise.
“Um, God?” I ask silently as neither of the above occur over the next hour. “Would you mind sending me a sign that this isn’t actually a huge mistake and that I’m going to be ok on my own please?” My current status of ‘lost and alone in Europe’ almost rattles me when a familiar face appears, and I grin widely with the relief of recognition before I actually recognise who is smiling back at me.
It’s Jason Segal, off of how I met your mother, Forgetting Sarah Marshall. He grins, I gawp, and we definitely have a moment there on the streets of Paris but I decide not to stop and tell him that he is a sign from God. I walk on by and find my hotel at the end of the street.
So far freedom tastes good, but I take a certain comfort in my geography- I’m not that far from home yet. Yet. A double -decker monster train awaits that will take me to Barcelona at 300km per hour. I am again pooping my pants. What I don’t know yet, is that there is a very handsome stranger coming to sit in the seat next to me…
To be continued….
