by Kyle James
Orrie and Rebekah arrived home from work just in time for us to soak up as much of their positive energy as possible as we said our good-byes.
Our Uber arrived and we sped off to JFK Airport, narrowly missing collisions at every turn. I guess Uber adopted not only the New York City taxi model, but also the driving style as well: accelerate full throttle to close up as much space between cars as possible, and then slam the brakes at the last minute to avoid demolishing bumpers.
Dropping our packs off at the Norwegian Air check-in was a huge weight lifted off our shoulders. This was it, I thought as we showed our passports and went through security. As I got a bit nervous about what awaited us, I noticed a mother trying to mask her own crying as her two children stood beside her, weeping. I recognized the tears of saying good-bye to loved ones for an extended period.
I suddenly felt a wave of guilt pass over me. I already missed my family, and I wasn’t sure that Ash’s and my choice to quit our jobs and take off for several months made a lot of sense. We were only going to be gone for four months. But it wasn’t the time that worried me; it was the distance. If anything happened to our families while we were in Denver, it was a quick three-hour flight to get to them in North Carolina. Soon we would be at least a day of travel away from making it home. I quickly wiped my eyes before raising my hands to prove my innocence to the metal detector.
Our Boeing 787 was brand new, and there were touch-screen TVs behind each seat. Ash and I each chose a movie to start the trip: Ash chose Wild, as she had just finished reading the book, and I chose Interstellar, because I love engulfing myself with explosive spaceship movies while flying.
We probably should have slept on the plane, as it was already 10:00 p.m., but we were like giddy schoolchildren, adrenaline pumping through our veins.
I noticed food being brought out on trays to passengers. I prepared to give my order to the flight attendant before realizing they were preordered meals. Preordered meals that we hadn’t paid for. (Nothing makes you feel more like a loser than watching meals served to the people around you who paid for them ahead of time.) Meanwhile, my stomach was growling. I immediately regretted not paying the twenty dollars back in March for a hot meal. I then saw the dog-food-like mush that was being handed to the rubes who’d ordered it, and my disappointment boomeranged to the notion of how genius we were for not buying the meal.
We both finished our movies and popped some melatonin pills to enjoy a deep sleep and strange dreams for the final three hours of our flight to Norway.
6/10/15
Oslo, Norway → Paris, France
We jumped time zones and arrived in Oslo at 10:00 a.m. After fumbling our way through customs, we entered Norway’s pristine airport. I say fumbled because for some reason those officers have a knack for making me feel like I am coming into the country to commit an act of terrorism.
“What do you plan on doing in Europe?” the officer asked with a straight face.
“Just visiting,” I replied.
“Where are you going and when are you leaving?” she asked coldly, still with a straight face.
“Uhhh, all over Europe, and then we are heading to Bangkok in September.” Shit, that didn’t sound good, I thought.
I never understood these small-talk questioning protocols at customs checkpoints. Even if I were there to commit a crime, why the hell would I just admit it? Yeah, you caught me. Had you not asked me what I was doing in Europe, I would have gotten away with it!
The Oslo airport was exactly as you would imagine it: clean, new looking, expensive, and full of beautiful Nordic people. Everyone seemed to travel in a blazer or a full suit. With a six-hour layover and food and drink prices higher than the people in Denver, we decided to build on the three hours of sleep we’d amassed the night before, and slept in comfortable chairs in a corner of the airport.
We ended our short trip to Norway and boarded an older Norwegian Air plane. (Safe to say the honeymoon phase with Norwegian Air was over as I sat in a chair that felt like an elementary school desk, my legs jammed sideways.)
When the all-too-familiar ding—“Flight staff, please prepare for landing”—sounded, our six-month preparation and lifelong dream became very real, especially to Ash. She gets giggly when she is excited, and her eyes got as big as I had ever seen them (and trust me, that’s big—she has eyeballs for days).
I will admit: there is nothing I love more than seeing her this happy. Traveling and the excitement of visiting foreign cities makes her happier than … Well, happier than just about anything makes me. I was still unsure about the decision we’d made to quit our jobs and set sail. Before I quit, my boss told me point-blank, “You are making the biggest mistake of your life.” But it was too late to second-guess ourselves now.
We bounced into Paris with a rather rough landing and proceeded to baggage claim. The fact that every sign was in English was half a relief/half a letdown. I had this romantic vision of struggling with the language and almost missing trains as we jumped on the rolling caboose just as the conductor yelled, “Last call!”
We exited the tram that took us from the airport to one of the city’s main stations. As we looked for our next move, that bittersweet feeling from before quickly lost the sweet part.
We could not figure out where to go and traversed the terminal in search of our train to Bastille. A jolt of panic shot through our spines; it was day one and we were already failing. After some angry exchanges between Ash and me, a sweet French woman pointed us to the right train. We rode in silence, both embarrassed at our anger toward each other.
We then headed aboveground to the Bastille neighborhood of Paris, our home for the next few days. It’s hard to describe what we, after twenty-four hours of nonstop travel, felt and saw as we emerged from the depths of the metro into the City of Light for the first time. It was as if Google Images had dumped photos from an “Amazing Paris Neighborhood” search on top of us.
We had that awkward tourist sensory overload moment, too, where we scrambled for our phones and cameras to try to take pictures of every limb of every tree around us all at once, as if every Gothic cathedral would disappear in seconds. Eventually, we snapped out of it and strolled confidently to our first Airbnb destination. We did it; we are backpackers … or so we thought.
“Are you sure that code is right?” I asked Ash, entering the number from the Airbnb instructions for a third time.
“Yes, Kyle! I am reading it right from the message,” she said.
It took us half an hour to realize we were on the wrong road and at the wrong building. Dammit, I thought. We suck, again. We eventually found the right building and walked up six flights of steep, spiraling steps.
Waiting for us at the top was our Parisian Airbnb host, Clemence, a gorgeous aspiring actress. Clemence showed us around the small studio while she enthusiastically pointed out to the rooftop porch where she spent most of her time. It was a four-by-four-foot roof covered in Astroturf and with no guardrail—it was a long way down to the Bastille street below. As we said our good-byes, she told us we were welcome to sit on the porch if we were “not afraid of the fall.”
That day was definitely a learning experience for us, with a few more downs than ups. Our first metro experience exposed something I was worried about on this trip: my tendency to get frustrated easily in stressful situations. Instead of taking a deep breath and relaxing, I got flustered and took it out on Ash. I knew I’d have to remedy this or we’d be staring down some stupid arguments as our sojourn continued. Regardless of the hurdles we had to overcome, we made it to Europe, we made it to Paris, and we made it to our first Airbnb in a foreign city. We were not experts in traveling yet, but we were certainly not afraid of the fall.
6/11/15
Paris, France
It was before 6:00 a.m. when Ash woke up. She kissed my cheek repeatedly and bounced up with excitement like my late grandpa James on the first day of hunting season. It was surprisingly light out for 5:45 a.m., and
with no other option but to succumb to Ash’s excitement, I got myself up as well.
We had not yet figured out how to get clothes out of our backpacks effectively, so we dumped everything out like kids with bags full of Halloween candy, picked something to wear, and headed down the deathly spiral staircase. Our goal was to get lost in Paris, eventually making our way to the most clichéd but essential destination, the Eiffel Tower.
As we walked down the cobblestone streets of the Sixth Arrondissement, I noticed the all-too-familiar runny nose and throat tickle of an oncoming allergy attack. Please be a false alarm, I thought, gazing at the shops of Paris Saint-Germain. We ventured south, as did my allergy condition. Finally, after six massive snot rockets, Ash made me buy tissues.
Then, mid-nose-blow, we saw it at the same time: the Eiffel Tower. Even just a glimpse of the top gave us chills. It was such an iconic structure, and I had seen it hundreds of times in books, magazines, and on television. It was nice to confirm that it was indeed real.
When we reached the tower, we stood in awe and shamelessly took hundreds of pictures, as if one angle would be better than another. Eventually the wonder wore off, and we headed home on the line 9 subway to Voltaire and took a long nap before dinner. Paris, we were finding out the hard way, was exhausting.
Our evening was spent picnicking on the deathly rooftop. We put on some music and spread out our sandwiches on the space of the turf that our bodies hadn’t taken up. Our first sunset in Paris was spent laughing on the roof at the ridiculous selfies our GoPro had produced. The bottle of champagne certainly assisted. I watched Ash take a selfie and then laugh, but I couldn’t see the picture; I was transfixed by her. We were having a blast on this four-by-four-foot Astroturf roof, and we didn’t need anything but each other. However, the view of the Paris skyline from Bastille certainly didn’t hurt.
6/12/15
Paris, France
On this particular morning, it was I who couldn’t sleep. I sat in bed, hungover from my cocktail of melatonin, allergy medicine, champagne, and jet lag. I woke up at six fifteen to the sound of bustling streets outside our window as Parisians hurried to get their Friday over with. I remember the excitement of Fridays. No matter what happened on Friday, I was going to be home free at 5:00 p.m. for the eternity of two days.
While Ash slept, I did some work on the budget we had set up on Google Drive and looked for Airbnbs in Belgium and the Netherlands.
It was a huge concern of mine that we would run out of money while overseas. I wanted to make sure we came home with at least six thousand dollars to get our lives back on track, so I created a spreadsheet on Excel to record our daily spending.
We calculated that from what we’d saved for two years, we could spend one hundred and fifty dollars a day on Airbnbs, food, drinks, and activities for the entire trip and come back with six thousand dollars. We created this dynamic budget so that we could correct the problem early enough if we were blowing money too fast. As I worked on this, I heard Ash stir.
“Kyle?” she said sweetly from the corner of the studio.
She always does this when she first wakes up and I am not in bed. She never needs anything; she just likes to hear my voice to make sure I am around.
“Yes, baby?” I replied.
She received her comforting confirmation and then rolled back asleep.
Ash woke up a few hours later, furious at me for letting her sleep the day away. It was only 10:00 a.m., but the feeling of not maximizing every second of her day stresses her out. In my opinion: quality > quantity. (There are obvious exceptions to this rule, like light beer and Legos.)
Ash got ready (she didn’t want to rest her day away, but she had no problem doing her hair and makeup for half an hour), and we left the apartment to go back to the Eiffel Tower. Sure, there were plenty of other things to do in Paris, but most things were expensive. Spending the day basking in the sun on the lawn out in front of the Eiffel Tower sounded great to us.
We took the line 9 metro all the way from Bastille to the Eiffel Tower and got out at the Palais de Tokyo. Before we got to the tower for the remainder of the afternoon, we stopped at a corner store to grab a bottle of wine, two Carlsberg tallboys, and a pack of cigarettes. (We didn’t smoke cigarettes, but that made us the only two people in Paris who didn’t. We wanted to embrace the culture and do as the Parisians do.)
We then sprawled out in the grass on the lawn of the Eiffel Tower and waited. Every hour, on the hour, the tower would light up and sparkle for five minutes. As we sat there on the pristine lawn, two thoughts came to mind. First: I can tell this trip is going to be a life-changing experience because it’s only the first week and I am completely out of my comfort zone, with no structure to my life right now. Second: Holy shit, I hate smoking cigarettes.
As the night went on, we had to jump a fence to escape some obnoxious eighteen-year-old kids who were partying loudly. I mean, wow; I remember my first trip to the Eiffel Tower. We stepped over a low-netted area and then lay on what appeared to be forbidden lawn to watch the tower glisten. It was extremely romantic. Ash pulling down her entire romper to pee behind a tree was not. It did succeed in making both of us laugh uncontrollably for an entire hour between the tower’s glistening. We ended up lying there until 2:30 a.m. before crawling back to the subway, exhausted from our three days in the City of Light.
Unfortunately, it turns out that the subway closes at 2:00 a.m. in Paris. We had just missed the last train. Although Uber was indeed available, it had surge pricing at this hour, which meant a fifty-dollar ride. Even when there are technological shortcuts, they don’t always beat the old-school method of public transit. Take the fifty-dollar Uber the six miles home and obliterate our budget? Hell no, I thought, we are backpackers and we can use the exercise. (At least that was what we told ourselves as we started the six-mile trek home.)
After a few hours, we made it all six miles, and although we were beyond tired, mentally and physically, we were feeling great. What’s more: our budget was somewhat preserved. I say somewhat, because although we didn’t take the fifty-dollar Uber, we ate an entire pizza, pomme frites (french fries), and a monstrous croque madame from a restaurant that was still open at 5:00 a.m. We were grossly ashamed of our late-night feast, yet unequivocally satisfied.
6/13/15
Paris, France → Brussels, Belgium
Finally, for the first time since we had arrived in Paris, we were both able to sleep in until 10:00 a.m. Not getting to sleep till 5:15 a.m. that morning probably assisted in this feat, but it felt great, either way. We headed out hastily so Ash could shop at Zara. Apparently, Zara was a trendy Spanish store that had locations in the United States, but it sold wares in our price range. The majority of the stores in Paris, however, were for people not on a budget.
We strolled around Bastille in search of crepes and dresses. Not my ideal morning, but I knew Ash would hold it against me forever if she didn’t get to shop in Paris. We walked into a swanky boutique, and I followed in the rough wake of the speedboat-to-spend in front of me. When girls are in their shopping zones, it is almost robotic how their minds and hands work together to sift through rack after rack, only needing a millisecond to analyze and decide what will and will not make the cut. Whether it’s not cute enough, too expensive, made from uncomfortable fabric, or too similar to something she already owns, hundreds of items get passed over before the all-too-familiar pause and stare. This is where the man’s heart starts racing. She has a live one, we think as we immediately begin our own analysis of the item. How bad is this going to hurt? Is it too early in the outing that she will want to continue after this, or could this be our last stop? Then my mind begins to wander off on its own: What are we eating for lunch? Is game five of the NBA finals tonight? Did I put deodorant on today?
The black top has passed all the preliminary tests, and therefore, we begin the duel.
“What about this one?” she asks.
My answer is carefully based on the result
s of my previous analysis. If it is not too expensive and could wrap up the day, I’d say: “Yeah, that looks great.” In this case, it was our first shop, and the sixty-five-dollar top was made with the same amount of fabric as my boxers. “Yeah, that looks great. Do you love it?” I responded, carefully complimenting her on her choice but sending the decision back to her court.
Ash is very indecisive when it comes to clothes, and sure enough, she replied, “Ehhh, I don’t know,” and kept moving. I took some fire for this, but left unscathed and lived to see another rack. I passed a fellow boyfriend between aisles and gave him the I’m in the same sinking boat as you—stay strong nod. We were comrades in a losing war—this was essential for morale.
After a few hours of following Ash around to other shops, we grabbed espresso and a few croissants and took them to our rooftop porch for one last meal.
I think this rooftop is what I will remember most about Paris. The Eiffel Tower is amazing, the streets and shops are spectacular, but everyone has those memories. The rooftop porch was our memory, and the small space symbolized us conquering our fear of traveling together. We enjoyed our last romantic picnic on the roof, feeding each other baguettes, our legs tangled to avoid the fall below.
Our ride to Brussels was coming at 4:00 p.m. We were riding with a guy named Jerome through an app called BlaBlaCar.
BlaBlaCar is a ride-sharing app that is a mix between Airbnb and Uber, but it’s much cheaper than Uber and specifically for longer jaunts, oftentimes between countries. We searched the website for trips between Paris and Brussels on June 13 and scanned the list of drivers making the trip to find a departure time and price we liked. It was sixty dollars for Ash and me to ride with Jerome the three and a half hours to Brussels, as opposed to the 240 dollars it would cost us by train. The only catch being that we were essentially hitchhiking with a stranger who could kill us. On the off chance he didn’t kill us, that extra 180 dollars would be put to great beer-drinking use in Belgium.
