DAY 42
Saturday JUNE 11 2005
Part One
The last day in Paris.
Not a very good picture. The person that took it cut off the top of the tower and the bottom of my leg. But, hey, at least I have a picture at all.
I have a confession to make. The reason that the last few days of journal entries have been heavy on pictures and light on words is that I am really eaten up by a problem.
It's my problem, I didn't feel like sharing it with the rest of the world, but apparently I am anyway, by default. It starts like this...
Today is my transit day to Prague. In case you don't know it, big bus tours and all buses stop at auto grills for 10 minute breaks. When I took my Rick Steve's 3 weeks of Western Europe a few years ago, our tour bus would routinely stop at them for lunch. They can easily feed and ship out a bus load of tourist within an hour. Makes me feel like cattle. I hate auto grills. They are like a glorified 7-11's with a fast food chain attached. I defy anyone to find something healthy to eat there. If you want to super size yourself eat at fucking auto grills. That is the one and only negative thing I have to say about Rick Steves Tours.
Think about it, you and all your tour buddies go in at once along with 10 other tour busses filled to capacity (lets say 50 people per bus, that's about 500 people) and the whole bunch head for the bathroom line and every other counter available as quickly as possible. It is absolutely the antitheses to the two hour relaxing lunches and dinners I so enjoy. It was my hope that after the tour was over I would never, ever darken the door step of one of those pit stops again.
Well here I was in transit on Euro Lines in a bus to Prague and what happens, but we stop at an auto grill for a ten minute break. I was craving carrots and all I could find was chocolate. Go figure. Anyway, at one of the hateful auto grills I was the first person back to the bus and was sitting on the curb waiting to be let back on the locked bus.
A young university teacher, Blanca from the Czech Republic, whom I have been talking with occasionally on the bus ride, is the second person to get back to the curb. She comes up to me and says "You look so sad, so unhappy." Now I ask you, how often does a stranger approach someone and worries about what's wrong?
I am wearing my sadness like a mantle around my shoulders. Its coming off of me like heat waves off the tarmac in the middle of a desert. Damn. So I guess I wear my heart on my sleeve whether I can help it or not. But how can I tell her all that has happened to me these last few months and years? We share chocolates and talk about inane things like how sodas cost 5 euros in Paris. Paris is expensive. Even more so for her than me, coming from the Czech Republic, as the KC (their dollar) is extremely weak.
What brought this problem to the forefront was coming to Paris for a third time.
The first time I went to Paris, it was exciting and new and as lovely as the first snow in the winter. A blank page for the future to be filled with boundless, positive possibilities.
The second time I went to Paris it was full of laughter and pride. I mean, come on, how many Athabascans do you know that have been to Paris twice? I felt like this was a really great accomplishment for me.
The third time I came to Paris, I had expectations. I had made a promise to myself that the next time I came I would be skinny and wear the skimpiest bikini top I could find to wear with denim jean shorts in front of the Eiffel tower to take an "after" picture. I had naturally assumed that the person taking the picture would be my boyfriend.
Well, I am here for a third time and none of that has come to pass. For the third time I am in Paris alone, my boyfriend doesn't' even own a passport and I weigh more now than at any other time in my life. What broken expectations. I carry with me an incredible sense of loss while I walk these streets.
So it eats at me. Go ahead, strap 20 pounds on your back and 20 pounds of luggage on your front, walk around like that for two hours and you will understand what the last two years have been like for me.
So as I walk the city streets of Paris it eats at me. Like a cancer that eats away at the body, this issue eats away at my peace of mind. So I am unhappy in that sense, but at the opposite end of the pendulum I am happy in another sense.
I know how lucky I am to be here for a third time. I do not take that for granted. Think about it, Paris, one of the greatest cities on Earth! I have the time and freedom to spend countless hours rambling the back streets of Paris, taking the time to discover whatever I want. I sit and have 2 hour lunches and sleep in as late as I want. I take long bubble baths in a tub I could get lost in. I am living the life of luxury and ease.
Every rose has its thorns and Paris is a beautiful rose. And yet, I am unhappy.
Where is she? Where is that uninhibited, free spirited, happy go lucky, bongo loving girl I know? Does she still exists somewhere inside of me? Where is she? Perhaps she is being crushed by her own weight.