Paris

The movie, Paris Je’Taime, features a variety of small vignettes about love in what is arguably the world’s most romantic city. Some are happy, some are sad. Some are of romantic love, others feature the love between family members… but I found the last one the most relatable: it tells the story of this woman, a post-woman from the US, who dedicates herself to the study of French and saves up all her money so that she can visit Paris, a city she’s dreamt of all her life.

She narrates her experience of the city in heavily accented French, about her trying the food and walking the streets, admiring the buildings and talking to the people. The end features her eating a sandwich in the park, and getting this overwhelming feeling that Paris, the city she has dreamt of and loved for so long, has fallen in love with her.

Paris is like that. There are so many young romantics there that it is like the excess of love produced floods out of apartments and cafes and restaurants to wash the city streets with it, to coat the buildings and lampposts, to seep into the gardens and the leaves of the trees—to catch in the wind and get caught in your hair and your clothes and the air you breathe, and before you know it, you feel like the city is carrying you lovingly in her heart.

I only had a day in Paris. I walked her streets, as I am apt to do in any city, and was delighted by her quaint architecture and modern styles, by her being a city of the world while still keeping her tranquility. She is lovely and she is kind.

And for me, she is familiar: I have been here before, with my father, when I was in grade school. I walked through the streets noting things that seemed familiar to me, things I vaguely remember. As I passed into the gardens beside the Louvre and passed the sculptures, I felt like I was re-entering a dream, half remembered. I have been here before; my father walked beside me, and I had the whole world before me.

It reminds me, I suppose, that some things haven’t changed much. My parents are still there for me, and the world is still before me; there’s just more of it behind me than when I was young.

So am I in love with Paris, and is she in love with me? Well… not yet, I think. Like the kind stranger you meet at the wrong time, the circumstances were not quite right; kismet, a smidge shy of favorable; the constellations, just barely unaligned.

There is always time, though, to reacquaint with the kind stranger, always the possibility to meet again, fall in love, and find happiness together, even if it’s not the kind of happiness that lasts forever. Maybe one day, Paris and I will find that, but not today. C’est la vie.

And now, after 28 months, I’m finally going home.

Misse

Many of the places I’ve visited have been a tumbled day or two that vanished in the dust of a bus or the rails of a train. I was entranced by the history and food and winding streets and lovely buildings… by all the things that make cities what they are. I extract from the brief stay in them their character. I meandered through them listening to their heartbeats, and find meaning in the rhythm.

But Misse and its surroundings—where I stayed for a sigh longer than two weeks—wasn’t like that; it wasn’t as a place that I experience it, but as interactions with different people in certain situations that led me to trusting strangers until they became a second family, truly understanding and embracing the small joys, and proving the true strength of those hidden parts of my character.

For all the chaos and uncertainty I experienced in the last two weeks, I found intense moments of peace, as well. There were many I experienced with others: singing and dancing in the kitchen with another volunteer helper at the house where we were working; collecting the branches of a pruned plum tree with a retired English detective;—and later, going shopping with his wife at a small, inexpensive store after a lunch out.

But I also experienced many alone, and I feel the need to record at least one because there is no one who can remind me of my memory if I forget: in the last week, I took out Echalote (“Echelles” for short; the darling cocker spaniel owned by the two men who’d hired me) for a walk. She was a bundle of energy, and it was stated that she needed to get out and burn some of it off, so I and the other volunteer helper went out with her.

My companion shuffled his feet, and Echelles pulling me as she did, and he tending to stop to ponder something or other and seeming generally to enjoy the time to himself—soon Echelles and I were by ourselves. She pulled the leash and I, in my flats, ran with her as best I could until the pain in my shins obliged me to stop, though I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing at the little dog’s excitement.

We walked up the road, through the forest, and in between two pastures—one which lay fallow and the other filled with sunflowers, their heads bowed as though they’d all fallen asleep in the senescent sunlight. We turned and went back the way we’d come, through the forest and back out to the road where some of the trees were already beginning to show the colors of fall. Past the lake and the blackberry bushes, and up the small hill.

As we approached the end, I stalled and walked with light, unhurried steps. The sun was beginning to set, the colors disoriented and confused in the mess of clouds above us, but seeming all the more peaceful for the lazy way they painted the sky. I could see the steeple of the old church, darkening into silhouette. The fields around us were pale hues of gold and pink and brown. Distantly the wind was blowing through trees; Nearly, it was in my face and my hair.

Not meeting the expectations of others, not feeling like I was absolutely the best at everything, used to really bother me. For much of my life, I have judged my self-worth on the worth others attributed or seemed to attribute to me. Now I can see myself for who I am instead of how others see me, and I can value the skills I do have rather than always worrying over those I don’t (and think I should—or think that others think I should).

 I feel like the last few weeks have been validating. But now, it’s time to move on. Paris will be my last city. Then, I will finally fly home.

Nice and Lyon: One long trust fall

In these last few weeks of travel, my lack of constant companionship has engendered a desultory collection of responses, from something resembling admiration and respect to unadulterated surprise and thinly veiled suspicion (that I’m not entirely right, you know, mentally). Many remark on the dangers that traveling alone may invite—in particularly, people with ill intentions who may take advantage of a young lady traversing the world alone.

Yet, of all the things we put our trust in—companies and organizations, structures and transportation, brochures and what we read on the internet—I can’t help but feel as though the average stranger you meet on the street is less likely to disappoint you, all things considered.

I set out from Florence to Lyon on September 9^th. The first of the four trains I was meant to take was delayed 40 minutes, thereby causing me to miss every other domino in the delicate line-up… including the day’s last train to Lyon. I arrived in Nice tired and fully expecting to be camping out at the station. I inquired with the ticket office about tickets, and was informed that the station would close at 12; if I slept there, it would be outside the doors.

As I made my way toward the exit, one of a group of three guys called out to me: what followed was a string of apologies for overhearing, an invitation to get a hotel room together, and then explanation of being gay and not wanting to be creepy and apologies again. In short: three young American men I’d never met before inviting me to share a hotel room for the night in a city where I knew no one in a country that wasn’t my own and spoke a language I didn’t know.

I said yes.

And you know what? It was fine. Great, in fact. So much better than trying to make due with a park bench or a place against the closed train station. We got a cramped room with one single and one double bed (they gave me the single) for 15 euros each, with a bathroom door that not only didn’t lock; it didn’t even quite close all the way.  But it was fine. We dropped off our bags, had dinner together at a late-night kebab place, shared stories and experiences, and slept soundly in our crowded room.

As one of the guys revealed the issue with the bathroom door, I commented, jokingly, that this experience was like one giant trust fall. One of the other guys said that was an apt analogy.

—And thinking on it, I realize that the best times of my life have kind of been trust falls. Deciding to move to cities where I didn’t know anyone, sharing secrets and deep emotions with friends, even joining Peace Corps—trusting they would take care of me and send me some place where I could reach my goals and be happy… my life has become one long trust fall.

I trust three strangers in a hotel room in a city in France to show me respect and kindness, and they do. I trust a friend I haven’t seen in over three years to find me at the train station in Lyon and take me to a place I can sleep unharmed, and he does. I trust a guy I’ve only known online to shelter me and feed me, and he does.

There are people out there with ill intentions, sure, but whenever I’ve fallen, I’ve always been caught. Of course I try to be cautious, but too often people let their cautiousness prevent them from taking a chance, and experience the world outside their comfort zone and miss a great opportunity or amazing adventure. I don’t want that.

And I think, even more, I don’t want to be the kind of person who mistrusts a stranger for no other reason than that. I don’t want to believe that people are inherently evil or mean or selfish—because in my experience, they’re not (and at this point, I’ve had a lot of experiences!). I want to trust the goodness of humanity. I want to believe people are good. I want to give opportunities for kindness.

I want to trust that if I fall, someone will catch me.

Florence

I can say nothing of Florence that hasn’t been said before. I cannot hope to capture in words the artistic pleasure of wandering through its Galleria Dell’Accademie and Galleria Uffizi where each turn ignites a firework of delight within me; the streets so filled with people to foster the simple joy of feeling small and light and ethereal as snow; the sudden, wide-eyed wonder of stumbling across the Basilica di Santa Marie del Fiore by chance and feeling overwhelmed with awe.

Florence is the favorite city of so many, and it’s not hard to see why. Looking out at the city from the Copula of the Duomo, which dominates the cityscape by its scale and height—or from the Piazzale Michelangelo just across the Arno River (in the fading lights of a striking sunset)—one finds the city holds its Renaissance-era charm: the panoramic is untouched by the tilting skyscrapers and dominating condominiums of modernity. The only indication of its presence in the world of today is the collections of solar panels laid across the brick-red tile roofs.

Millions of people come to Florence every year—young and old alike. My days here were few—only two full days to scrape the surface and see the major sites before being whisked away on another adventure. It was difficult to get here, to the this city, difficult to find a place to stay the night, and the largeness of everything, the pure bold majesty of it all, makes me feel a bit like a child, and I somehow feel like Florence is too much for me. Maybe she’s too much for any of us.

I want to come back. Many of the cities I pass through I can say goodbye to feeling that I have seen what I needed to see, but Florence is one of those cities that still has secrets to uncover, mysteries to reveal, delights to discover. She is a city that bids me, in a knowing whisper, echoed in the rustle of her leaves and the quietness of her ancient stony structures, to return when I am ready.

Until then, she will be waiting for me.

Ciao, Florence. Ciao, Italy.

Bonjour, France.

Bari

From the time I arrived in Bari until the time I left, I feel as though my time was something of an eclectic mix determined in large part by the strangers to acquaintances to friends with whom I spent my time. Traveling alone, I often make my own current through the wide waters of the world, but while in Bari, I let myself flow along to the currents of others.

I arrived in Bari in the morning after an overnight ferry that took me from Montenegro to Italy. I stepped off the ferry with a new friend, a middle-aged Russian woman named Tatiana, who had chatted happily to me the night before we fell asleep in the cabin we shared. We spent much of our first day in Italy together, checking into out hotels/hostels, getting lunch, and window-shopping at the myriad fashionable outlets lined about the stone-paved streets.

Like a boat carried along a river, I let her lead me through the streets she knew far better than I did, through the shopping districts and into Old Town, where we sat quietly in the Basilica of St. Nicholas. It’s a quiet place, with a strange calm and peace that does seem somewhat mystic.

She left the day after that on a ferry back the way we’d come, to Montenegro, but we had lunch one last time before she went.

Fortunately, I got picked up by a group of young people at my hostel, lead by the youngest of the group, a French girl studying architecture outside of Paris. She invited me to go out with her and two guys from Australia the first night, and as our time together grew, so did our numbers, such that it began to pull in other hostel-goers—the gravity of camaraderie.

I leave Bari a little sad to see the camaraderie forced apart, but the memories stay. I will remember perusing the shops of Bari, exploring the nearby city of Polignano, and taking late into the night while taking shots of Tabasco sauce from tablespoons. It is remarkable, the delightful experiences that come with letting go and letting yourself be carried by the currents of those around you. You never know what you will learn about a city, a culture, a person, or yourself.

Now I again set about my course and look onward to Florence.

Kotor

I remember when I was leaving Mongolia, I met another RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) in a little café where expats tend to go. We talked for a while, and at one point, he posed a question to me: ‘What are the three most important things you’ve learned living in Mongolia?’ The first thing I said, so quickly and with such certainty that it surprised even me, was, ‘It’s all in the people.’

It was true in Mongolia, and it continues to be true as I travel about Europe. It is my last day in the Balkans: tonight I go by ferry to Bari, Italy. Kotor, Montenegro is the last place I laid my head, and where some of my best memories have been made—not necessarily because of the sites, but because of the people I’ve met.

I arrived in Kotor on the 30^th of August, somewhat weary, but not so much that I couldn’t hike the fortifications, which snake up the side the mountain beside which the old town of Kotor is built. As in Dubrovnik, the Old Town is girded by walls and contains meandering alleyways and side-streets, filled with shops and restaurants and little ice cream parlors and stray cats.

The next day, the weather was still nice, and so I took a bike ride around the area—one that ran along the coast and introduced me to a variety of small, coastal communities and quaint pebble beaches. At 40km (about 25miles), it took me about 4 hours or so, and proved a nice way to spend the afternoon.

But it wasn’t until later that night, when a bunch of hostel-goers went out for dinner, that the true enjoyment of my time was realized. We ate, drank, talked, and laughed—people from Australia, New Zealand, Germany, Ireland, the UK, and the US. All the next day, rain kept us cooped inside, but during a reprieve, a small group of us ventured out to explore what we could until rain drove us back inside. We stayed up playing card games and talking until late into the night.

By the time I left the hostel, all the friends I’d made had left. It’s strange, this life—how all at once, strangers can come together, and within a short time, become friends, and then, in the blink of an eye, be once again be scattered across the globe. Like a beautiful day passing the hours, a sand castle on a windy beach, a quaint town going by, a flower in full bloom, the joys of life are so often temporary; you embrace them when they come, knowing they are fleeting.

Kotor is already behind me, another city I’ve tumbled through, another leaf blown through the wild winds of my wandering. Zephyrs take me onward, and I wonder what I will see, where I will go… and who I will meet at my next destination

Dubrovnik

Another bus; it seems like I’m in them so often. Such a wayward life.

Dubrovnik lies at my back. The two nights I spent there were lovely; it gave me one full day to see the city, which is really all I needed, I think, to see what I wanted to see—in short, Old Town, which lies on an outcropping of the rocky Dalmatian coast. Surrounded by walls, Old Town is like a castle, surrounded by turrets and ramparts.

I like to wonder through places like Old Town; places where the streets wander like casual conversations, slipping in and out of shadows and happening on small, pleasant discoveries. Though clearly a historic site, Dubrvnik (like Splt) is alive with activity: restaurants and little shops, and even people living within the walls in apartments, hanging their laundry out to dry on lines between stonework buildings.

I walked the Old Town walls, which ring the entire city, and as I looked out over the red tile roofs, I imagined what life would have been like here hundreds of years ago, what it would feel like to be in such a place: from food to clothing to shelter, all one’s material needs could likely be met without ever having to leave the protection of town.

But then again, man cannot live on bread alone.

On the east site of the city lies the port, where ships and their crew could find haven and respite. I imagine what it would be like to be a merchant sailor here, how comforting to return home after a long trip abroad—to come back to the safety of these strong, tall walls after so long at sea.

We don’t build walls of brick and stone anymore. But I think the safety we derive from walls, be they physical or emotional, can’t be denied. Like food and water and clothes, safety is one of our most basic needs—the presence of which gives us courage to take risks, meet challenges, and make extraordinary discoveries.

For me, my adventures are possible only because I have the safety of emotional walls, built by the love and support of my family and friends. I can set sail to distant places because I know I have that kind of home to return to.

And in about a month, I will, after 28 months away.

Right now, it’s hard to think so far ahead. Right now, my mind is all filled with Kotor, and what new adventures and discoveries it might bring.