The day of June 28, 2009 had typical weather for Dover, England. The cool sea air wafted gulls and ravens alike over the mountains of rooftop chimneys. From my vantage point at Folkestone, Dover was a truly beautiful city, framed by the unmistakable English Channel. My destination lay on the other side of the towering white cliffs at the Port of Dover. After a short walk to the bus station, I clumb to the second floor of the 101 Line to Dover, "The Wave" as it was called. From there on, it seemed like smooth sailing compared to my hellish debacle with The Countryside. Smooth sailing is to be taken literally, as I soon made my way onto the P&O Ferry Line. Only an hour and a half away was the European Union, land of peace, unity, and most importantly, legions upon legions of trains waiting to take me back to a real bed, TONIGHT. I looked out over the side railings as my salvation inched closer and closer, as the British Isle was quite literally consumed by storm clouds. Fitting. We made port, and that's when the adventure began.
As I stepped out onto the soil (asphalt) of Calais, France, it was immediately apparent that something was awry. The last bus to the train station had left over two hours ago. Strange, I thought to myself. I didn't know it then, but the young backpackers I had exchanged glances with at the port were to be some of the finest friends I had met.
I walked at a brisk pace toward Gare du Calais, not wanting to repeat my previous encounter with being only three minutes late for certain salvation. In this case, I was on my way back to the Flying Pig, where I knew I would be able to be absolutely rid of all stress. The movies in the common room, the music, the people... The last train had left for some remote town at 6:30. I had nothing but fury.
The two backpackers came in shortly after I had collected myself, and attempted to speak French from a hardly-read phrasebook to a local. They were having no luck, so I stepped in. According to the kind Frenchman, there was indeed one more train: The 22:54 to Boulogne. Everyone was in accordance with the best bet: to roll the dice on a connection from Boulogne, or get a room there.
It turned out that The Only Three Americans in France did neither. Once the three of us had descended to the concourse at Gare Boulogne-Ville, we noticed that there was actually a connection to Paris (which likely connects to a place where trains run past 6 PM) departing in 5 hours. Not that bad, right? Well, the train was set to leave at 4:30 AM. It was just then 11:30 PM. We had a night ahead of us, and we quickly decided to look for a bar in lieu of a bed. Not one of us were in doubt that we were in for an all-nighter. We began to walk up the main road, up the hill to the city center. What we found at the top amazed us.
There before us, in working order, was a fortified city center. I made a point to slap the walls to make sure they weren't plastic, and sure enough, 13th century stones all, complete with archer's slits. Therein, we were surrounded by tranquility. The town was asleep, much to our envy. We found a place to get some wine glasses, and we watched as the town quieted further.
0:00. 4 hours to go. I decided to make a theatre out of the park benches and my laptop, and we sat there watching FLCL... Until 3:00. We were in a city center, and not one of the passing groups of people were there to accost us and steal my belongings. Much the opposite: "bon soir." "Bon soir," they would say as they passed. "Bon soir," I would reply. Never before have I passed someone at night and had them greet me voluntarily.
We set out for the train station. Silence. There's always been something eerie in the air when I encounter it at home, but here, it felt right, like the town had actually fallen asleep. I had always heard the tag line for NY, "the city that never sleeps." I hadn't actually seen a city sleep until that night.
Someone had improperly locked the train station doors, so we three soon found food and shelter within the warmth of the train station. It wasn't long before we were all asleep. Then, as if no time had passed, it was already time to get on the train to Paris. Thank god. And if this train was like the others I had been on, thank god twice, because I could sleep like a baby on any train I'd been on... Up until this one. I can only remember being so cold I couldn't sleep even though I wanted to: A certain trip to Colorado that I never wanted to go on in the first place. I could see the parallels like I see the sun: Blindingly apparent.
Between spots of narcolepsy, I bid my new friends a fond farewell, as Paris was their final destination. I can see how that could happen, as absolutely no trains were headed out of the country when I needed them to.
Oh, and it didn't stop there. No way. On my way to Leiden, I was the unwitting victim of the French Train Chair Device (they have a catchy way of saying it)on my way to Lille. The FTCD is a seat-like apparatus designed to the perfecting edge of discomfort. Afterwards, my TGV literally had "pas prends de voyageurs" on the Depart board at Lille, forcing me and 126 fellow passengers to cram onto a Eurostar train to Brussels. From there, the train I boarded literally careened right through Leiden Centraal to Schipol. Luckily, the train back to Leiden was speedy, and a bus was waiting to take me back to the hostel.
The night was extraordinary. It started simply, with only a guitar chord. That caused someone to pick up a ukelele. That caused someone to start singing, and it compounded on into a beautiful symphony of traveling musicians. The man on guitar one was from Sweden, guitar two was from here in the Netherlands, the third guitar and singer was from Spain, and I, on the pen-and-ashtray set, was from a town where this never happens. I did not know their names. I did not ask. Nobody did. We didn't need to. The music said more than our names ever could.
Now I lay here in a mildly muggy bunk, typing this letter, knowing full well that I am in a place that is thoroughly different than anything I'm used to.
This trip rules.
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