Tales of a Neurotic Traveller 1. Green Men and Signs from God

“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….

@melodys_pen