My travelogue begins!
Well, my self-imposed deadline for writing my travelogue is quickly approaching, so I am going to sit down now and see what I can come up with.
Last year at this time I was preparing for my six-week backpacking trip across (four countries in) Europe. I went to France, Belgium, Netherlands and Germany. I travelled by myself, excepting the two weeks in Belgium, when I met up with a friend from my undergrad studies. I'd never been outside of North America before, and had only 'backpacked' during my thesis research trip the year prior when I went to Western Canada (at one point during that trip I was on the train for 5 days straight. I would learn in Europe that this is a frikken LONG time). I had travelled a lot in Canada, but it was more of the visit-friends-and-family variety rather than actually trying to make my way across unfamiliar cities all on my lonesome. I also didn't have a lot of confidence in my practical skills and knowledge, so I was incredibly stressed and panicky about the thought of going. My best friend, who's travelled a LOT, told me this was natural - you're really excited while you're preparing, and then the last week or so before you leave, you completely freak out. But you push through, and it ends up being fine. I was also told by other travellers (at the various travel boards I visited to gather information for my trip) to give myself two weeks to get used to the ups and downs of travelling, and that after that initial rocky period, you'll feel like a pro. I found that more-or-less to be true - after two weeks of travelling by myself, I definitely felt a lot more confident and comfortable in what was a completely new situation for me.
So, day one consisted of catching the plane here in Fredericton, a short stop in Boston to change planes, and then arrival in Paris. Most of that journey I chronicled last year in one of the few travel updates I wrote up while I was in Europe. This entry will cover my plane trip and arrival in Paris. I'm reading my travel journals to refresh my memory, so if you see a line in quotes, it's from my journal.
***
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2004 - Boston, Mass. to Paris, France
I flew the Boston-Paris leg of my trip on Air France, an airline I now love. They gave us cool mini packages of things like ear phones and mini-wipes which proved very helpful on my trip, and the food was AWESOME. From my journal: "tuna on a salad! Imagine getting meal ideas from airplane food!" But the highlight was definitely the bread - a little mini-baguette, super fresh and de-LISH. Mmm.
Wow, I wrote very little about the plane trip in my journal. I thought I wrote a lot more.. *consults memory* Well, I remember waiting in the Boston airport, a bundle of nervous energy. I bought a handy map of Amsterdam which definitely was worth its weight in gold. I exchanged the American cash I brought with me into Euros (I couldn't find any Euros in Fredericton at the last minute - for that is how I do things). I wasn't happy with the exchange rate, and I think I must've lost money in the double conversion of funds, but I was happy to have local cash and not have to worry about it in a foreign country the next day. And with how stressful that day ended up being, I think it was worth whatever cash I lost!
I also remember there being a huge group of German schoolkids on the plane. And they were LOUD. The passenger beside me - who had been working in the U.S. for a few months and was returning home to Sofia, Bulgaria - rolled his eyes and told me that Germans were loud and obnoxious like that. Haha. I didn't find that at all when I was in Germany though. I loved Germany. *sigh* But interesting that apparently they have that reputation.
My seatmate was quite fascinated by the fact that I'd never been to Europe before. He wanted to know, once I got to Europe, whether I thought there were any physical differences between North Americans and Europeans. He said he found North Americans to be shorter, and IIRC, stockier. I can say now that I agree with him - on average, Europeans seemed to be much taller and thinner. Not model skinny or anything, but (as statistics confirm), they don't seem to have our North American problem with excess weight. Now I don't want to skip ahead of myself here, but I realized one reason for this in Germany. I learned there that German women ate something crazy like 8 pounds of chocolate each year (that stat might be way off, but it was the highest in the world, higher than North America stats too). So I wondered how that didn't translate to a lot of extra pounds, and the answer (in my opinion) lay in the chocolate bars I kept buying there. Their chocolate bars are actually CHOCOLATE. 100% pure, high quality chocolate. None of this 'wafer' crap and all the gritty goodness that goes in North American chocolate bars like Mr. Big, Coffee Crisp, etc. - most of our chocolate bars are actually only lightly dipped in chocolate, and the rest is just crap. Also, our chocolate has a lot more wax in it and isn't as good quality. As recent studies have shown, chocolate actually is healthy, the darker and purer the better. So. That's how I explain how German women can eat craploads of chocolate and still be healthier than their North American counterparts.
My seatmate also talked a lot about his home in Bulgaria. I really wish I'd written this down... Wait, it think I did, in a later entry. Here: "He says he was 8 years old when the U.S.S.R. fell and says he doesn't remember a lot, but has talked to many people about what Communist Bulgaria was like and has struggled with what he thinks of their "democracy" now. He summed the paradox up beautifully, i think, when he said "Under communism, people had a lot of money, but few things to spend it on; whereas with democracy now, most people have very little money, but there are now many things they can't afford to buy. He gave the example of sneakers - under communism, there would only be one kind of sneaker available in every size; under capitalism, there are many, many brands of sneakers to choose from, but few people can afford them. He said that the rich live very well in Bulgaria for that reason.
He said another thing he doesn't like about Bulgaria is its corruption. If a policeman is harassing you or legitimately charging you with something, a little bribe - which most people can't afford, but, I presume, know they must produce - will let you off the hook automatically."
DAY 2: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2004 - Paris, France
The flight was about 8 hours long. I arrived in Paris the next day, early in the Parisian morning, and promptly fell in love with the gorgeous Charles de Gaulle airport. I met my first Hot French Guy while buying postcards in a magazine shop. I found out that the security in the airport was completely lax, in shocking contrast to the Boston airport. They didn't even stamp my passport when I arrived (which I now regret - I want the souvenier!), they just waved me on. I was told there would be strict security when I arrived, so I actually wandered around the airport for about an hour looking for the rest of the immigration red tape. Finally I asked the Hot French Guy, who told me in sexy halting English, "There's nothing like that here. You're not in the United States anymore!"
I'm now going to quote directly from my journal, because I describe it so well and it will be more interesting in the immediate first-person rather than the reflective year-after-the-fact. Prelude: Getting from the airport to the hostel was absolute hell. I've been since told that Paris is NOT the city you want to start in for your first backpacking trip, and, YEAH. That.
"I am going to cry. So violently and hard that rivers will shudder at the sound.
I am sitting in a Paris café, having ordered "téa à menthe" (mint tea) and the waitress brings me a teapot and a shot glass. What the fuck? Welcome to Paris.
Holy fuck it smells good though. Tastes amazing. Smells like tonnes of fresh ground mint leaves. Tastes exactly like that, plus a hefty dose of sweetness. Honey? Totally yummy though.
I so deserve this. My experience in this cafe is representative of the rest of my day. I didn't just come here and sit down and order - no, I was first chastized by the waitress for not saying "bonjour" (must everyone do that here?), and then I sat in the wrong section (they get grumpy when you sit in the "food" section of the cafe). The tea is better when hot. Chewing on the mint leaves is not recommended. Blech.
*long exhale* Sooo... we arrived in Gay Paree and I felt calm and fairly collected for again only having 2 hours of sleep and 2 hours of trying to sleep... on top of 2 hours of sleep the night before! I wandered around the airport for a while, gawking at its magnificence. I walked to the Metro (the RER - suburban train system) and have to abandon the precious luggage cart and carry my too heavy bags on my person (problem #1). I'm finding half of Parisians giving me attitude when I struggle in French, and half of the people so amazingly warm and helpful. Absolutely nothing in between. I talked to a woman at an information station, but she's one of the rude Parisians. She does explain in French and points to where I'm to buy my RER ticket. She said the price quickly in French, and to confirm I asked in English, "Seven dollars?" She just repeated the figure again in French, which wasn't very helpful.. I heard a "sept" in there though, and sure enough it was 7 euros.
The next hurdle: I have the ticket in my hand. I see the number 2 on it and look around to see the corresponding sign, and find nothing. I ask a few people in French and nod uncomprehendingly as they explain, then move on to another person who also doesn't speak English. Finally I find someone who does speak English and I find the right platform. But then there are two different trains sitting on either side, going in opposite directions. Fuck. But! I read the sign and quickly figure out which was the correct train. Woo me! So then I'm on the train (the RER, different than the Metro, which I find out later is very important!) and feelings very "Hi, I'm a tourist!" exposed with my bags, and half the people are looking at me friendly-like and interested, and half opening hostile and glaring.
I get off at my stop - the Gare du Nord - and my exciting journey to find the mysterious Porte Dauphine metro line begins. It's not among the bulk of the metro lines - which I discover after searching many, many times - it's actually about a 10 minute walk through a mall. Obvious eh? Why couldn't I figure that out? Heh. Actually, the locals didn't seem to know either, as most people I asked (all in French!) kept directing me back to the bulk of the metro lines and stared at my blankly when I said that Porte Dauphine was actually a seperate station... The next adventure was when someone directed me to what turned out to be the RER (suburban train) station. I walked all the way down successive flights of stairs only to be told by people there that Porte Dauphine is part of the metro not the RER. SIGH.
So I make my way back to the indoor mall and finally find someone who speaks English. He said to keep walking straight in a certain direction and that I'd find it. I did that, through a long tunnel walkway, only to end up at a bunch of turnstiles which made my very nervous. They made me nervous because it seemed like an exit, and the last thing I wanted to do was to have to pay another metro fee to get back in. So I turned around and walked back the way I came - to find another English speaker (yay!) who told me I was going the right way originally. Sigh. I mean, this whole time my shoulders are protesting and my bag is getting heavier and I'm taking it off for breaks and trying to re-distribute the weight, etc... sigh.
So this guy is brilliant and yes when I go through the turnstiles and go up another flight of stairs, there is (an outdoor! in a funky neighbourhood!) metro station there. Good. I get on, and get off at the correct stop. Then I'm on a street and not knowing where to go. I search through my bags for maps - knowing I may as well be screaming TOURIS! TOURIST! and attracting all kinds of thieves and pickpockets - find the name of the street I want, stop the first woman I see, and ask in horribly anglicized French "Où est la rue Rodier?"
Immediately she smiles and speaks English (she's Irish!) and says I must be going to the Woodstock hostel (I am!). She offers to take me there and to carry a couple of my bags in the meantime. My guardian angel! She chats about how it's hard in Paris when you don't have perfect French because people aren't patient and will interrupt you and not want to bother with you. She said the backpack can especially turn people off, as they are sick of clueless anglophones needing directions, etc. That explains a lot! She shows me where a few essential shops (i.e. grocery store) are and warns me that a woman alone, especially a traveller, will get harassed by men in this area."
Holy crap I wrote a lot. Anyway, I checked into the hostel and had to find a place to hang out for 5 hours until I could go to my room. (Many hostels have weird rules like this; in this hostel there is a lockout between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.) So I asked for directions to the nearest cafe, and hung out there all afternoon until I could crash in my bed. My favourite thing in the cafe was a sticker on a wall that said POUTINE YOUR ASS.
Oh, and I also took my first picture in that cafe! I went to the washroom and looked up to see THE TINIEST WINDOW EVER. Behold:
Is it a window or a rain gutter? Only Parisiens know.
Also, my first post from Paris!
Sorry for any typos. I am anal about the proofreading, but it took me long enough to write this, so a spell check and quick once-over is good enough!
Last year at this time I was preparing for my six-week backpacking trip across (four countries in) Europe. I went to France, Belgium, Netherlands and Germany. I travelled by myself, excepting the two weeks in Belgium, when I met up with a friend from my undergrad studies. I'd never been outside of North America before, and had only 'backpacked' during my thesis research trip the year prior when I went to Western Canada (at one point during that trip I was on the train for 5 days straight. I would learn in Europe that this is a frikken LONG time). I had travelled a lot in Canada, but it was more of the visit-friends-and-family variety rather than actually trying to make my way across unfamiliar cities all on my lonesome. I also didn't have a lot of confidence in my practical skills and knowledge, so I was incredibly stressed and panicky about the thought of going. My best friend, who's travelled a LOT, told me this was natural - you're really excited while you're preparing, and then the last week or so before you leave, you completely freak out. But you push through, and it ends up being fine. I was also told by other travellers (at the various travel boards I visited to gather information for my trip) to give myself two weeks to get used to the ups and downs of travelling, and that after that initial rocky period, you'll feel like a pro. I found that more-or-less to be true - after two weeks of travelling by myself, I definitely felt a lot more confident and comfortable in what was a completely new situation for me.
So, day one consisted of catching the plane here in Fredericton, a short stop in Boston to change planes, and then arrival in Paris. Most of that journey I chronicled last year in one of the few travel updates I wrote up while I was in Europe. This entry will cover my plane trip and arrival in Paris. I'm reading my travel journals to refresh my memory, so if you see a line in quotes, it's from my journal.
***
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2004 - Boston, Mass. to Paris, France
I flew the Boston-Paris leg of my trip on Air France, an airline I now love. They gave us cool mini packages of things like ear phones and mini-wipes which proved very helpful on my trip, and the food was AWESOME. From my journal: "tuna on a salad! Imagine getting meal ideas from airplane food!" But the highlight was definitely the bread - a little mini-baguette, super fresh and de-LISH. Mmm.
Wow, I wrote very little about the plane trip in my journal. I thought I wrote a lot more.. *consults memory* Well, I remember waiting in the Boston airport, a bundle of nervous energy. I bought a handy map of Amsterdam which definitely was worth its weight in gold. I exchanged the American cash I brought with me into Euros (I couldn't find any Euros in Fredericton at the last minute - for that is how I do things). I wasn't happy with the exchange rate, and I think I must've lost money in the double conversion of funds, but I was happy to have local cash and not have to worry about it in a foreign country the next day. And with how stressful that day ended up being, I think it was worth whatever cash I lost!
I also remember there being a huge group of German schoolkids on the plane. And they were LOUD. The passenger beside me - who had been working in the U.S. for a few months and was returning home to Sofia, Bulgaria - rolled his eyes and told me that Germans were loud and obnoxious like that. Haha. I didn't find that at all when I was in Germany though. I loved Germany. *sigh* But interesting that apparently they have that reputation.
My seatmate was quite fascinated by the fact that I'd never been to Europe before. He wanted to know, once I got to Europe, whether I thought there were any physical differences between North Americans and Europeans. He said he found North Americans to be shorter, and IIRC, stockier. I can say now that I agree with him - on average, Europeans seemed to be much taller and thinner. Not model skinny or anything, but (as statistics confirm), they don't seem to have our North American problem with excess weight. Now I don't want to skip ahead of myself here, but I realized one reason for this in Germany. I learned there that German women ate something crazy like 8 pounds of chocolate each year (that stat might be way off, but it was the highest in the world, higher than North America stats too). So I wondered how that didn't translate to a lot of extra pounds, and the answer (in my opinion) lay in the chocolate bars I kept buying there. Their chocolate bars are actually CHOCOLATE. 100% pure, high quality chocolate. None of this 'wafer' crap and all the gritty goodness that goes in North American chocolate bars like Mr. Big, Coffee Crisp, etc. - most of our chocolate bars are actually only lightly dipped in chocolate, and the rest is just crap. Also, our chocolate has a lot more wax in it and isn't as good quality. As recent studies have shown, chocolate actually is healthy, the darker and purer the better. So. That's how I explain how German women can eat craploads of chocolate and still be healthier than their North American counterparts.
My seatmate also talked a lot about his home in Bulgaria. I really wish I'd written this down... Wait, it think I did, in a later entry. Here: "He says he was 8 years old when the U.S.S.R. fell and says he doesn't remember a lot, but has talked to many people about what Communist Bulgaria was like and has struggled with what he thinks of their "democracy" now. He summed the paradox up beautifully, i think, when he said "Under communism, people had a lot of money, but few things to spend it on; whereas with democracy now, most people have very little money, but there are now many things they can't afford to buy. He gave the example of sneakers - under communism, there would only be one kind of sneaker available in every size; under capitalism, there are many, many brands of sneakers to choose from, but few people can afford them. He said that the rich live very well in Bulgaria for that reason.
He said another thing he doesn't like about Bulgaria is its corruption. If a policeman is harassing you or legitimately charging you with something, a little bribe - which most people can't afford, but, I presume, know they must produce - will let you off the hook automatically."
DAY 2: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2004 - Paris, France
The flight was about 8 hours long. I arrived in Paris the next day, early in the Parisian morning, and promptly fell in love with the gorgeous Charles de Gaulle airport. I met my first Hot French Guy while buying postcards in a magazine shop. I found out that the security in the airport was completely lax, in shocking contrast to the Boston airport. They didn't even stamp my passport when I arrived (which I now regret - I want the souvenier!), they just waved me on. I was told there would be strict security when I arrived, so I actually wandered around the airport for about an hour looking for the rest of the immigration red tape. Finally I asked the Hot French Guy, who told me in sexy halting English, "There's nothing like that here. You're not in the United States anymore!"
I'm now going to quote directly from my journal, because I describe it so well and it will be more interesting in the immediate first-person rather than the reflective year-after-the-fact. Prelude: Getting from the airport to the hostel was absolute hell. I've been since told that Paris is NOT the city you want to start in for your first backpacking trip, and, YEAH. That.
"I am going to cry. So violently and hard that rivers will shudder at the sound.
I am sitting in a Paris café, having ordered "téa à menthe" (mint tea) and the waitress brings me a teapot and a shot glass. What the fuck? Welcome to Paris.
Holy fuck it smells good though. Tastes amazing. Smells like tonnes of fresh ground mint leaves. Tastes exactly like that, plus a hefty dose of sweetness. Honey? Totally yummy though.
I so deserve this. My experience in this cafe is representative of the rest of my day. I didn't just come here and sit down and order - no, I was first chastized by the waitress for not saying "bonjour" (must everyone do that here?), and then I sat in the wrong section (they get grumpy when you sit in the "food" section of the cafe). The tea is better when hot. Chewing on the mint leaves is not recommended. Blech.
*long exhale* Sooo... we arrived in Gay Paree and I felt calm and fairly collected for again only having 2 hours of sleep and 2 hours of trying to sleep... on top of 2 hours of sleep the night before! I wandered around the airport for a while, gawking at its magnificence. I walked to the Metro (the RER - suburban train system) and have to abandon the precious luggage cart and carry my too heavy bags on my person (problem #1). I'm finding half of Parisians giving me attitude when I struggle in French, and half of the people so amazingly warm and helpful. Absolutely nothing in between. I talked to a woman at an information station, but she's one of the rude Parisians. She does explain in French and points to where I'm to buy my RER ticket. She said the price quickly in French, and to confirm I asked in English, "Seven dollars?" She just repeated the figure again in French, which wasn't very helpful.. I heard a "sept" in there though, and sure enough it was 7 euros.
The next hurdle: I have the ticket in my hand. I see the number 2 on it and look around to see the corresponding sign, and find nothing. I ask a few people in French and nod uncomprehendingly as they explain, then move on to another person who also doesn't speak English. Finally I find someone who does speak English and I find the right platform. But then there are two different trains sitting on either side, going in opposite directions. Fuck. But! I read the sign and quickly figure out which was the correct train. Woo me! So then I'm on the train (the RER, different than the Metro, which I find out later is very important!) and feelings very "Hi, I'm a tourist!" exposed with my bags, and half the people are looking at me friendly-like and interested, and half opening hostile and glaring.
I get off at my stop - the Gare du Nord - and my exciting journey to find the mysterious Porte Dauphine metro line begins. It's not among the bulk of the metro lines - which I discover after searching many, many times - it's actually about a 10 minute walk through a mall. Obvious eh? Why couldn't I figure that out? Heh. Actually, the locals didn't seem to know either, as most people I asked (all in French!) kept directing me back to the bulk of the metro lines and stared at my blankly when I said that Porte Dauphine was actually a seperate station... The next adventure was when someone directed me to what turned out to be the RER (suburban train) station. I walked all the way down successive flights of stairs only to be told by people there that Porte Dauphine is part of the metro not the RER. SIGH.
So I make my way back to the indoor mall and finally find someone who speaks English. He said to keep walking straight in a certain direction and that I'd find it. I did that, through a long tunnel walkway, only to end up at a bunch of turnstiles which made my very nervous. They made me nervous because it seemed like an exit, and the last thing I wanted to do was to have to pay another metro fee to get back in. So I turned around and walked back the way I came - to find another English speaker (yay!) who told me I was going the right way originally. Sigh. I mean, this whole time my shoulders are protesting and my bag is getting heavier and I'm taking it off for breaks and trying to re-distribute the weight, etc... sigh.
So this guy is brilliant and yes when I go through the turnstiles and go up another flight of stairs, there is (an outdoor! in a funky neighbourhood!) metro station there. Good. I get on, and get off at the correct stop. Then I'm on a street and not knowing where to go. I search through my bags for maps - knowing I may as well be screaming TOURIS! TOURIST! and attracting all kinds of thieves and pickpockets - find the name of the street I want, stop the first woman I see, and ask in horribly anglicized French "Où est la rue Rodier?"
Immediately she smiles and speaks English (she's Irish!) and says I must be going to the Woodstock hostel (I am!). She offers to take me there and to carry a couple of my bags in the meantime. My guardian angel! She chats about how it's hard in Paris when you don't have perfect French because people aren't patient and will interrupt you and not want to bother with you. She said the backpack can especially turn people off, as they are sick of clueless anglophones needing directions, etc. That explains a lot! She shows me where a few essential shops (i.e. grocery store) are and warns me that a woman alone, especially a traveller, will get harassed by men in this area."
Holy crap I wrote a lot. Anyway, I checked into the hostel and had to find a place to hang out for 5 hours until I could go to my room. (Many hostels have weird rules like this; in this hostel there is a lockout between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.) So I asked for directions to the nearest cafe, and hung out there all afternoon until I could crash in my bed. My favourite thing in the cafe was a sticker on a wall that said POUTINE YOUR ASS.
Oh, and I also took my first picture in that cafe! I went to the washroom and looked up to see THE TINIEST WINDOW EVER. Behold:
Is it a window or a rain gutter? Only Parisiens know.
Also, my first post from Paris!
Sorry for any typos. I am anal about the proofreading, but it took me long enough to write this, so a spell check and quick once-over is good enough!