Wed 9 Apr 2008
I wanted to go to Europe for so long that it had reached the point of wistfulness. All around me in my 20’s if you were artistic, young, and slightly adventurous you scraped up the money and found a way to go. Friend after friend regaled me with their tales of schlepping across Europe with nothing but their backpack, passport, and stinky socks. It got to the point where I would greet these tales with excitement but secretly, envy would cloud my listening ears.
When I first moved to Fort Collins, CO I was certain that this was merely a passing stop, a way to put off the inevitable outcome of my resounding fame, fortune, and success. I hadn’t truly been on my own for long and Josh and I were still capable of bouncing from place to place, packing up the Montero, gassing up and going. I diligently collected coins in my waitressing apron, stashing them away in a jar and cashing them into my bank account every month. This was my travel money, my Italy money, my destiny. I researched all sorts of travel abroad programs, would I be a courier? Would I do work study? Would I do it intellectually, through a school program? (No matter that I wasn’t currently enrolled in anything). It seemed that there was plenty of exploitive, dig ditches type of work in Europe for someone in the 18-25 range. Sure you had to pay your own airfare, but then the organization would give you a cot to sleep on and maybe some food!
I saved over a thousand dollars and right when I was getting ready to just do it, go to Europe alone via a work program, my car’s brakes started making horrible noises. Mind you, this was a 85′ Volkswagon Quantum that I had purchased for $500 in the mountains. I used this car a lot, because Fort Collins had virtually no public transportation. I remember I was a mentor for the county, driving this at-risk 9 year old girl around town and my car was this hideous death trap. It was then that I had to make a decision: ditch the car, my cat, my boyfriend and head off to Europe? Or use my travel money to buy a new car so I continue to make money, pay the rent, pay the bills, and buy cat food. Sadly, I chose the grown up route and replaced my car with a used Suburu that had failed the emissions test and was a steal at $1200, (using my out-of-town driver’s license to skirt the mandatory emissions testing that Fort Collins required for licensing).
The window of opportunity was lost. And I mean that it was a time of decadence, a time of having very little worries financially (it was easy when you’re poor), a time when I didn’t really think about my future in any serious sense (what’s retirement?), and I had this great boyfriend but we weren’t, like, really serious (I’m never getting married). It was one of those windows where every sign points you to Europe, an adventure, a risk. And I didn’t take it…my life become more and more responsible, making frivolous financial decisions impossible with my fiance’ back in college, my performance career taking off again in a tiny college town that needed committed performers, and the rent always increasing as my standard of living grew higher.
So I was resigned to listening to everyone else’s travel abroad stories and feeling really jealous. I simply did not know how I was ever going to Europe, but I knew that I had to in my life time–preferably sooner or later. I had this horrible feeling that I would end up waiting until I was 65, puttering around on a cruise or a senior citizen tour to Europe–which was ok! I just wanted the experience of going when I was young, able to buy the latest fashions and feel a little sophisticated drinking espresso in a tiny cafe. Ok, so it was vanity…but I really wanted to go. Some people feel as if they can live their whole life wallowing in the comforts of America, pleased at our freedom and unabashed patriotism. I just had this feeling that Europe would really like me: we’re both environmental, we both like good food, and we both have slight disdain for over sized novelty coffee beverages.
And then my sister went to Europe, doing the exact same thing I wanted to do when I was her age (22)–taking off, wearing a backpack, schlepping from train to train. It was really hard and she learned a lot and saw some amazing things. However, I know that I am not that sort of traveler (I don’t know if I ever was). My parents made noises about wanting to go and I solicited them at every chance. Wouldn’t it be fun if we went together? Wouldn’t it be great if we could pitch in on a hotel instead of a hostel? Didn’t they understand that at some point I’ve got to start having kids and my European dreams will be put on hold? I also knew how easy it would be, showing up in Europe with the trusted guise of my father’s language skills and competent map reading; my mother’s calm practicality and responsibility. I admit: it wasn’t as exotic as taking off in my 20’s with nothing but luck, my youthfulness, and a limited amount of money. However, I jumped at the chance to go when my Dad said they were finally looking at plane tickets.
I was really nervous. Everyone who spoke to me about it knew I was really scared about traveling alone and meeting up with my folks in Paris. It seems really ridiculous how soft I’ve become. For 9 years I’ve had Josh as my consistent travel partner–sure there have been plenty of times when I’ve traveled without him but it’s always been to trusted locations like Seattle or Portland. Together we’ve conquered the likes of Rabbit Valley, (Utah), El Paso, Kansas City, and the lusciously easy Maui. We’ve driven from CO to WA three times. We’re good travel partners–which should be a prerequisite for any marriage.
I knew I would have the safety of my family when I arrived, but all this paranoid stuff about flying kept creeping up (what if we fell out of they sky?), my inability to speak any French, and this pesty business with my nervous bladder. It got to the point I almost dreaded the enormity of the trip. Josh kept asking me, ‘are you excited?’ and I would answer honestly, ‘no, I’m nervous.’ I barely mentioned my trip at all, only inquiring from other travelers what to expect, pack, and see in France. I wanted magic solutions to expected jet lag, language barriers, and homesickness. I wanted to get to Paris in the same capacity as Star-Trek beams its crew members to their destination or Dr. Who steps into the Tardis. However, I know the reward of getting to one side of the world from the other is the process of simply going. You appreciate the Louvre that much more when you endured a 9 hour flight next to a man who held his Chihuahua in his lap the entire time.
Thus, the next few blog entries will be dedicated entirely to my trip to France…stay tuned.
