The Longest Day (Part 2)

May 2, 2013 (Continued)

At the front desk, I inquired about an ATM. I didn’t fully understand the directions he gave to me, not because they weren’t clear but because I wasn’t really listening. My head was pounding and I wanted to sleep. I got the gist of what he said…head back towards the metro…next to the stairs…across from some bakery…yada yada yada.

I went outside and retraced my steps back to the Crimée intersection. My foot was killing me too. It felt like the bandage was getting tighter and tighter with every step I took. By the stairs for the metro, I saw the ATM. I had some Euros left over from my previous trips, so I only took out enough to get me back to my usual budget.

I saw the bakery that he had referenced in giving me directions and went inside. I decided it was time to try and have some fun in France, so I ordered a croissant. I practices saying “Si-vous plait” when I ordered and “merci” when they gave me the croissant. I was surprised at how friendly the staff was. They spoke English to me the entire time.

The croissant was good too! It wasn’t like any croissant I’d had before. Instead of being light and doughy like store bought croissants, this was firm and flaky. It wasn’t super sweet, but very satisfying!

I walked back towards the hostel. Just next to the hostel was a large shipping canal. Kevi had emailed us that there was a nice walking path around the canal. Shuffling along and munching on my croissant, I decided to give the walk a try. The buildings were quite beautiful and I passed a crazy, chaotic outdoor market. Again, it was probably my tired brain, but my paranoia kept me from joining in that mob scene. There was a nice breeze blowing, and it brought with it a very sweet fragrance. The water in the canal however was not the source of the smell. It was so discolored; I didn’t even want to think about what might be the source of the pollution.

After walking down one side of the canal, I decided to head back towards the hostel and get an early lunch in the restaurant. Aside from the croissant and blueberry muffin at 3am, I hadn’t really had anything to eat in the last 12 hours. The hostel restaurant had a student discount so I figured that would be a good place to start for a cheap meal, and perhaps some blood sugar would improve my mood.

Walking in the main entrance of the hostel, I asked the same guy at the counter if I ordered lunch at a table or at the bar.

“You will order at a table,” he said. “They have menus. But lunch is not served until noon.”

So many four letter words raced through my exhausted brain.

“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile and turned to head back outside.

There was a little courtyard just outside the hostel and I went over to a bench and sat down. I felt so hopeless. I wanted to be excited. I wanted to be having adventures…but not like this. Not when I’m tired I can barely stand up.

Going back outside, I saw a small courtyard just across from the hostel. I walked over to it and sat on a bench. There were pigeons scattered all over scavenging for non-existent crumbs. I tried really hard to perk up—although a nap on the bench felt like a good idea at this point. The logical side of my brain told me that was a good way to lose my passport, so I tried to think of other simple ways to get excited about Paris.

I didn’t want to go all the way into the center of town, because (a) I didn’t know which direction the center of town was, and while I probably could have asked for directions in the hostel, (b) I didn’t know what all would be covered on our tour tomorrow, and (c) I didn’t want to experience Paris pissed off about how tired I was.

So I decided to try another walk. I wandered back towards the metro stop, and this time turned left to walk along the busier road. As I walked a few blocks, I made a few observations about the people I was passing. A lot of them had little rolling bags that they pulled behind them. As they went from shop to shop, and bakery to bakery, they put their wares in these bags.

The diversity continued to jump out to me. In Prague, probably 99% of the population is Caucasian. This has been pretty much true of everywhere I’ve travelled—Germany, Spain, Amsterdam, Switzerland, etc. In just a block I saw a dozen different religions and races represented on the streets.

The French people themselves seemed very serious. I suppose that has been my impression everywhere I went. I did note, however, that they were very willing to make eye contact with you. They didn’t necessarily smile, but they didn’t have the downcast looks that I’ve gotten in most places.

The characteristics of both genders tended to be very feminine. From the way people walked, to the way they crossed their legs to sit, every movement seemed very deliberate and dainty. I also noted some of the frequent and bizarre haircuts. From strange comb-overs to odd designs shaved into the sides, there were some unique hairstyles present on the streets of Paris.

The architecture along the streets was beautiful. Like in Barcelona—in fact, a lot about the city reminded me of Barcelona—many of the apartment complexes were not just practical in structure, but decorative as well. There were beautiful flowering trees along the walkway, and even some palm trees sprouted up on occasion.

After walking about a half a mile, I came to an overpass with a train rushing by overhead. I started feeling a throbbing sensation in my foot decided to turn back. This just is not my day.

Back at the bench in the courtyard, I removed my shoe and undid the bandage. Giving my foot some freedom felt great, and I sat for a bit people watching and enjoying the fresh air.

You are having fun Zach. You’re just tired and hungry…but this is going to be a great adventure, I pep-talked myself.

I’d brought some notes with me to study for some exams. Finals started the day after I got back so I’d planned to study some while I was here. With a bum foot, nowhere to go, and nowhere to sleep for another 2 ½ hours, it seemed like a good time to be productive.

I rolled up the bandage, but my sock and shoe back on, and went back to the hostel. Going downstairs, I scanned my code and opened the locker. Cramming the bandage in with my other things, I pulled out my bag, and went up to take a seat in the restaurant.

I reviewed notes and started creating a little study guide in the back of my usual journal. I also connected my iPod to the hostel Wi-Fi so I could look up some things online. Eventually, noon came and a waiter brought me a menu. I ordered the chicken fillet and an Orangina to drink.

While I waited for my food, I opened Facebook on my iPod. Liz, Tory, and Gaby (who I met in Amsterdam) are all taking finals and heading home next week. Amy (who I met in Barcelona) is home.

I want to go home…at least I think I do.

I forced myself to think about it for a few seconds. Was I really as burnt out as I felt? What happened to that rush I had two weeks ago in Switzerland when I couldn’t even imagine going back now? This had to be the tired brain talking.

My order turned out to be the best, most juicy and flavorful chicken tenders I’ve ever had! And Orangina—which is a French company—is my new favorite Orange soda. And blood sugar did make me feel instantly better!

As I continued studying, I noticed how blue the sky was outside. It’d been overcast since I arrived—I hadn’t really noted it since all of Europe seems to be overcast a majority of the time—but seeing that blue sparkle overhead brought a beaming smile to my face. I was surprised that the pop/techno music the restaurant was playing actually seemed to help me focus. The song “Clocks” by Coldplay came on the loudspeaker, and I smiled at the lyric “Home, where I want to be!”

Chuckling at the irony of those words, I realized, I am exhausted, but I’m not ready to go home. Even being burnt out is fun in away. It reminds me of how hard I’ve been playing for the past 3 months. And perhaps this was a good little study…”This is Zach’s brain...and this is Zach’s brain on 2 hours of sleep.” While I do love adventure, I have to remember that I can’t just keep going and going without taking care of my body along the way. Skipping sleep and missing meals makes me depressed, paranoid, and irritable. I’ve learned a serious lesson today!

Feeling quite satisfied with myself, I packed up my things, journalled a little, and then paid the bill. Going up the registration desk, I asked the same guy, “Can I check in yet?”

He looked at the clock on the wall. I knew what he was going to say.

“It is only 1:30. You need to wait 30 more minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He hesitated, and studied the clock. “Actually, probably 20 minutes will be okay.”

“Great!” I said, meaning every letter of the single syllable word. “Thank you SO MUCH!”

I went back outside and took another lap around the upper part of the canal. The fresh air felt great, the blue sky was amazing, and the freedom of wandering the streets was liberating. I was a bit disgusted by seeing people fishing in the tawny colored water. Anything that was caught in that canal was sure to be growing and extra eye and probably missing a few chromosomes.

Finishing the lap, I found my way back to the little courtyard outside the hostel. I watched as the kids played in the playground across the street, and listened to the noise of traffic honking their way down the crowded road. When a barge would come through the canal, a gate would close the road, and the bridge would physically lift (not open on a hinge like a drawbridge, but the entire section of road lifted on a hydraulic frame) to let the boat pass underneath.

I was so distracted by observing the hustle and bustle around me, that I didn’t even register the bell in the clock tower chiming. It wasn’t until I heard the two loud rings that indicated the time, that my brain realized it was 2:00!

I picked up my bag and rushed back into the hostel. By now, a line had formed to check-in and I had to wait. When I got up to the counter, a different man—who I gathered by the way the employees talked to him was the owner—helped me. He gave my choice of a top or bottom bunk (and gawked when I chose top…telling me the bottom was always better) and gave me my room key.

I went over to ride the elevator up to room 206. On the elevator, I met two girls from Canada who were just starting a three month backpacking trip across the continent. We were so engrossed in conversation, that we didn’t realize the elevator required a key to operate. Basically, it was programed so you scanned your key card when you entered and it only took you to your floor.

As they rode up to 6 and I attempted to ride down to 2, I got stopped a few times by different cleaning staff. I finally made it to room 206, only to discover that my bed (the bottom bunk #A that he had talked me into) was occupied.

Riding the elevator back down to the lobby, I found a different employee to help me.

“I’m supposed to be in room 206, bed A, but it has someone’s things on it,” I explained.

“Oh!” she said. “Is bed B open.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is B ok?” she asked in a heavy French accent.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I just want to sleep.”

“Ok,” she smiled, at my obviously too enthusiastic response. “Let me just change you in our system.”

“Great!” I said. A tall black man was standing next to me and going back and forth with the man I presumed was the owner. They were speaking French so I couldn’t follow most of it.

“Alright,” she asked, “what is your name?”

“Zachary,” I said.

“You are Zachary!” the black man next to me exclaimed. “It is so nice to meet you! I’ve been looking for you!”

Well that was not what I had expected.