On Traveling

Last weekend, my friend Vicky (a student at Grinnell, currently studying in Granada, Spain) and her friend Laura came to Paris to meet our friend Davis (also from Grinnell, studying in Paris) to attend a Pixies concert. Vicky invited to me to meet them for the weekend, and since other kids from Nantes were going to Paris as well, I packed and hopped the Friday afternoon train.

Leaving was unsettling; not only because I was randomly going to an unknown city, but the farmers in Nantes were on strike (blocking the public transportation with their tractors and cows) and someone had been hit by a train between Nantes and Angers. But once I got to Paris, met up with Vicky, Davis and Laura in the train station, immediately all feelings of mal a l'aise disappeared.

While Vicky is a little crazy and a lot energy wrapped up into tight hipster pants, Davis counters her with his calm, and between the two of them, Laura holds her own. Needless to say, the four of us combined were a force to be reckoned with. We spent the weekend riding the metro, buying food from street vendors, and visiting the occasional tourist trap. And it was absolutely one of the best weekends I've had in France so far.

(Davis, Vicky, Me)

And to add to the fun, Vicky and friends from all over (Belgium and Morcco) and I had decided to meet the next weekend (this weekend) in Barcelona. My good friend Felicity had suggested this to me, and being not unlike my father, my first thoughts were ones of "Hmm..Barcelona sounds expensive...I don't know" (even though it was only about 70 euros.) And of course, I waited too long, and of course, the prices increased. And, ignoring all rationale and intellect that I have gained over the years, I bought the very expensive tickets anyways.

(Yes. My parents were unhappy. And yes, I spent last week in the grips of paralyzing guilt.)

I went to Paris two nights ago, skipping class, so that I could take the cheapest flight out to Barcelona. I spent the night in the beautiful and stereotypical centre-ville appartment of my host mother's sister (an appartment decorated with antique chandeliers, tapestries, and even a real, stuffed wild-boar head hung up on the wall.) At 4:30 Friday morning, I walked 30 minutes down the large, well-lit parisienne avenues, under trees and vintage lamposts, past churches and cafes and bars that hadn't yet closed, and had no intention of closing. And you know what? I was pretty proud of myself. It was kind of warm, there were people out that weren't going to mug/rape/kill me, and I knew where I was going without the help of Davis.

And then I got to the airport check-in and realized I'd forgotten my passport in my drawer back in Nantes.

I swear to god, I was dropped on the head as a child.

And though I pleaded, through sobs of terror, with the check-in attendant, my frantic attempts were met with a cold, emotionless reply of, "Vous pouvez prendre le train." Yeah, ok, I'll take the fucking train after I just lost 400 euros down the drain.

So I exchanged my train ticket, received 7 euros back (which, when the lady gave me, brought me to tears again) and spent the next 4 hours curled up in the fetal position in a corner of the train station. Think: shards of glass of guilt raining down upon me.

The gross thing is, the only thing (besides the 7 euros) that made me feel slightly better was, when I was walking from the airport terminal back to the train station, I read an advertisement for some insurance company. The ad had a student working out an organic chemistry problem, and immediately, in my head, I thought, "Diels-Alder: the double bonds move between the aromatic rings to connect and form a bridgehead."