Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Wednesday, September 22, 2010
12:50 PM
Calias, France
Bus, in carriage train, having just passed through the Chunnel.

I’m on the bus now, a National Express from London Victoria Station to Paris, France. They play music on the bus, and all the seats have belts. I am in a foreign land.

To get to France we drove along a superhighway, through the English countryside, the city having dissolved rather abruptly after a half hour of winding through the streets to get out. In rural Britain many of the images I imagined presented themselves as true. There are softly rolling hills capped by herds of sheep. There are signs pointing the way to ancient castles. There are drawing carved from the chalky hills.

Then the bus drives into this little carriage—a bad place for a claustrophobic—and the carriage pulls you beneath the English Channel in about a half hour. The bus itself becomes stuffy inside, smells funny, but stepping outside it is cool in this tunnel.

We’ve just now pulled out of the carriage and I am in France. For once, I don not speak the language. I expect the culture here to be much different, and I am bracing myself for an experience unlike any I have been through before.

Already I notice the way nature has crafted the landscape, and how the Frenchman has applied himself in this world. The clouds are the same.

I’m passing by some farmland where what look like small houses tend to tiny fields. I’d like to imagine they are the homes of villien workers, but I’m thinking that they are probably toolsheds or the like.


To the right, closest to the Channel, and on the way returning to England, most of the signs are in English, and the services are distinctly from the English-speaking world—I have seen a billboard for an Australian style Bar & Grill. To the left if France—it is clear to me. The signs are in French, and the small town/city of Calais is formed of buildings authentically European. I anticipate that I am finally entering the true Old World.

So suddenly does the vibe of this place catch me—I can feel its differentness. England reminded me of New York too much, even the countryside felt much like Upstate. But here I sense, in the vegetation, the architecture, the all-about layout, that it is Europe, the one I’ve heard about. One could imagine something similar in the rural South, what with the plowed fields and the small roads, but the homes and the trees betray its inescapable European-ness.

Looking through this landscape I imagine I could have ridden my bike through here with pleasure. Even driving through the English-countryside I could sense that the oppression I felt when riding out of London would not have sufficiently abated. There was something in my anxiousness to leave the familiar—and England is much too familiar, too unhappy, too restricted. But here—here I can imagine pedaling away the long miles happily. Perhaps I will attempt to purchase another bicycle in Paris or Munich.

I had set out on my epic bike journey from the front of the old Tabard Inn, bike in hand, pack on back, and my duffel bag strapped and taped securely to the rack above the rear wheel. I set off onto the frightening London roads, directions in hand. Head south on Borough High Street—check. Make a left onto so-and-so street. And that quick—barely a hundred feet into my journey—I realized this was not going to go as planned. I faced a one way street.

In England it appears that bikes must follow all the rules of cars. They must not ride on sidewalks, must stop at the lights, must yield to pedestrians, and my not travel the wrong way up a one way. So I walked it. For a bit. Then said, “Fuck it,” and hopped on and hoped no one gave a damn. Which they didn’t. Almost the first three miles of my journey was going the wrong way and I think I heard only two honks which may or may not have been directed at me.

After about fifteen minutes of riding the road I was supposed to go on stopped, rather abruptly, at a wall. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to find the next road I was supposed to continue on. And repeat. This happened about three more times until the road I needed turned out to be more or less a main road headed out of the city. I say “or less” since it still decided to turn off at sharp, practically unannounced, angles every once in a while. And it doesn’t help that the English don’t seem to care for labeling their streets. Well, I’m not one for faith, and travelling those roads required a lot of it.

So, winding my way up a particularly steep hill I got off the bike, started walking it up, and at the same time noticed that the sun was particularly low in the sky. And then I started to count up the costs I would be incurring for travelling such a way. And what I would do if I was caught in the English countryside when the sun went down. And then how much of my losses I could recoup by just selling the bike and calling it a good try.

I turned the bike around, rode off into the sunset, and then a train headed back to the city center at London Bridge station.

I booked a bed at the Dover Castle Hostel and put the bike up on Gumtree.com. It was sold within the hour. And then I went about preparing myself for the European continental tour I have been waiting for.

The English countryside thing I could definitely do with a friend, maybe Justin. But by myself the environment became too depressing for me. I felt the crushing loneliness of my endeavor weigh in on me, nausea and irrationality descending. There were beautiful parts of England. I remember riding to the top of, I think, Maze Hill, and looking out and seeing all of London behind me, the London Eye in the distance about the size of the circle of my thumb and forefinger pressed together. With the relationship between England and America I feel that a journey through the country would require a good friend. Someone with whom I could really appreciate everything, joking in a way that might express my amusement. It’s a small world, and perhaps I may find a riding buddy along my travels.

Ah, yes, small worlds! At the St. Christopher Inn, on my second day, I went to the reception desk to inquire about the luggage room for the bike I was expecting to purchase when I realized that the guy behind the counter look strangely familiar. I tried to pass it off, but I swore I knew him during my Australian travels. Eventually, my curiosity could not be suppressed, so instead I sated it. “Excuse me, but where are you from?”

He smiled, the distinctive light mole above his lip ad to the left shifting. “New Zealand, but I lived in Australia for, like, five years. That’s why the accent.”

I cocked my head, “Australia? Where?”

“Sydney.”

No, couldn’t be. “What were you doing in Sydney?”

This line of questioning was getting strangely personal for friendly discourse, and my inquiries becoming more forceful, but only through interest. He continued to smile though, and furrowed his brow. “I ran a backpackers’ hostel.”

My eyes wide: “Which one?”

“Base backpackers.”

I laughed out loud and told him of my times at the hostel, and that I knew him from there, almost three and a half years ago. Tim’s his name. Small world. Small, small world.

We’ve been passing through the French countryside for about a half hour now and it’s been lovely. My suspicions were correct. The further we work our way into France the more “European” it becomes. The fields stretch out forever, the land is flat, and we passed a tiny little village, red rooftops and a church steeple poking out of it all. Modern windmills dot the land. And something about this all suggests that I might truly be able to ride my bike through surroundings like this.

However, I need to get rid of some of these books. I’m still carrying around my duffel bag, but only for a collection of books. This is unhealthy!

Alright, well, we seem to be stopping at a gas station for some fuel and food I suppose. So now’s a good time as any to cease my ramblings. Let us venture forth!