The Other Side of Paris

We set up our tents in the rain.  Our temporary guide hadn’t pitched a tent in six years, so we were mostly on our own.  My tent-mate is Aaron from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and he’s been camping several times.  Even in the winter, he mentioned.  Aaron is a gentle man, a tech-savvy genius, and a reliable guide well aware of his sense of direction.  Since Aaron loves to brag about subtle qualities, he is always on the look-out for an opportunity to one-up someone in an inconsequential matter.  Rather than boasting about the usual topics of income or the circumference of one’s biceps, Aaron would rather gloat about the number of RAM on his PC or the freezing temperatures he can withstand without complaining.

During the first night at camp, my air mattress deflated, and I slept on the cold hard ground.  I never expected it to be so cold in France.  The warmest layer I packed was a waterproof rain jacket with a net-lining sufficient to block out mild spring breezes.  I convinced myself that May temperatures wouldn’t warrant thick insulation, and, anyways, as the days grew longer I was heading south to Italy, where I definitely wouldn’t need a sweatshirt.  My frugality prevented me from buying a hoody which I would use for a week and then stow away in my bag for the rest of my trip.  Thus, I resolved to endure the lingering frigidity of the season. 

While struggling to fall asleep that first night, I held my bladder for an uncomfortably long period of time because I knew if I exposed myself to the chilled air I would stay up all night, so I shivered and curled up into a ball to retain warmth.  This was not what I had in mind for Paris, which I only associated with warm and fuzzy feelings. 

After a ten-hour rest and a hot breakfast, we drove into downtown Paris.  I got off the bus and headed toward the Eiffel Tower because I figured that’s what everyone does in Paris for the first time.  

The city has always been heavily romanticized, and the image of this metal beacon certainly plays a large role in the outsider’s imagination.  Derived from films like Ratatouille and Midnight in Paris, France’s capital seemed a magical utopia where love was tangible and you could always hear accordion music in the background.  Even the film Casablanca, situated in North Africa, suggests that Paris is a capsule of pleasant memories untainted by modern headaches that drive a man to drink his sulking life away.

When I envisioned Paris, I rarely conjured up people.  My mental pictures were beautiful postcards of barren icons all lit up for nobody.  If the apocalypse should ever wipe out portions of the earth, I naively assume Paris would be left untouched.  Although completely deserted, the city would go on living, and the streets would keep themselves tidy like self-cleaning ovens. 

 
But this was merely a fantasy.  Paris was like any other functioning city with heaps of traffic, fast-food chains, and international banks.  The Eiffel Tower was crowded with bus-loads of tourists and endless streams of African immigrants who fled their dusty towns to hawk cheap souvenirs.  Several black men jimmied shiny key-chains of Gustav’s grand edifice and pestered tourists to buy them.  

“Five for one euro,” a man says to me and holds out a set of golden miniatures dangling from a giant key-ring. 

“Non, merci,” I tell him and the next hawker who is ten feet away. 

In all my romantic visions, I had not accounted for the desperate and embarrassing forms of commerce.  How could I have believed two people could share a private kiss in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower?  A stranger from Japan would be taking your picture under the assumption you were French and, therefore, a natural part of the scenery.  Or a man from Mauritania would shove his trinkets in your face, and you’d buy one just so he would leave you alone. 

In my high school French class, we listened to patriotic songs that praised the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees, but the singers never mentioned the horrendous traffic and the likelihood of being smashed by a car when you cross the street.  There are twelve streets that merge into a circle called the Place Charles de Gaulle from which springs the famous Champs Elysees, lined with high-end shops and expensive souvenir stores. 

I always pictured the Champs Elysees with soothing jazz playing the background, but this association undoubtedly stems from my admiration for the Woody Allen film situated here.  Instead, I heard car horns beeping, exhaust coughing out of tail-pipes, shoppers muttering in foreign tongues, and energetic street performers clapping their hands and speaking English into microphones. 

A trio of men belly-danced and break-danced while surrounded by a crowd of excited onlookers armed with cameras.  A young man with a neatly sculpted beard and a flat-brimmed hat spoke into the mic. 

“We are professionals,” he said.  “So if you like the show you can give us your money!” 

He repeated his speech in French and then turned on upbeat music.  A man with long, flowing hair flipped acrobatically and then his bearded friend took the stage and proceeded to wiggle his arms and propel his legs as though skating on ice.

 

After a muscular black man twirled and spun his legs in a wild break dance, he pulled a little girl from the audience and manipulated her body into various poses as though she were a Barbie doll with bendable joints and a flexible range of motion. The performance ended as the dancers upturned their hats and asked for donations.  I dropped a euro into an extended ball-cap to avoid feeling guilty while I walked away. 

What struck me most about Paris was not the romance and not the architecture.  Nearly everyone on the streets wanted your money, and they were quite frank about this.

As I strolled along the Seine River, I saw a tan, mustached man approach me.  I was walking alone, but I tried to look like a man you wouldn’t want to bother.  Sunglasses shielded my eyes, and I looked straight ahead.  My strides were long, and my pace was swift as though I were hurrying to class.  When the man was directly in front of me, he bent down and placed a ring on the floor and quickly scooped it up as though he recently discovered the gold. 

“Monsieur!” he said.  “Is this yours?”

I suppose his goal was to either sell me this fake ring or distract me long enough to snatch my wallet, but I had been forewarned about these disgraceful pests.  I said nothing, but I laughed at the unconvincing face he made.  He smiled like he realized this was a stupid and futile joke, yet he tried anyway. 

While in high school, I learned many French words that people rarely use.  There was an entire chapter devoted to phrases you’d say in an amusement park.  In four years of studying the language, not once did my instructor teach us the words for pickpocket, hawker, or street performers.  I never expected to encounter these.  Instead, thought I would see mimes, soft-featured men wearing berets, and other walking stereotypes.  Like those romantic movies glowing with optimism, I memorized only the good clichés. 

  

Making Friends

I met the Contiki group in the basement of the London Royal National Hotel.  There were about forty of us.  Most arrived in pairs, but there were a few solo travelers.  We all went to a pub next door and walked around, greeting each other.  After swapping names and repeating names, small groups began to form.

I knew that the first few moments of these social gatherings were crucial to forming friendships.  I had never been particularly skilled in socializing in large groups.  Usually I listened to everyone else talk while I sized them up and analyzed their potential to become my friend.  After examining the pool of suspects, I would hone in on a select few and interview them further to see if we could complain about the same topics. 

Shared enemies make for fast friends.  However, I recently discovered that I tend to focus too strongly on the negative when entering a foreign environment populated with people unknown to me.  While I walked under the gray skies of Dublin and took in the dreary surroundings in an unremarkable neighborhood, I wanted to go back home, but at the same time I berated myself for having such a bleak outlook during this rare opportunity.  Something in the environment of my upbringing has caused in me an inclination to criticize, and I resolved to fix this.  I wanted to battle this urge to find fault and, instead, be open-minded to bringing new change into my refreshed existence. 

    

As I was about to embark on a five-week trip with a bus-load of strangers, I felt it imperative to seek out individuals I wouldn’t mind sitting next to during eight-hour rides.  I abandoned my judgments and aimed to market myself as someone worth knowing. 

Brochures advertised life-changing vacations where you’re likely to make life-long friends.  I suppose this thought was filed somewhere inside my mental cabinet, as part of me is always searching for a future wife.  When I find an attractive woman, I can’t help but study her for compatible qualities well-suited to create a comfortable partnership.  Does she watch foreign films?  Does she smoke? Would my genes, entangled with hers, produce an offspring likely to thrive?  Yes or no questions echo in my subconscious as I think of jokes to pique her interest and distinguish myself from the other men competing for mates.

All the Contiki members wore a sticker on their shirts during the meet-and-greet, and I targeted those labeled individuals in search of traits I recognized in myself and traits I wanted to acquire.  I wandered around the pub, chatting with Canadians younger than me.  There were girls from New Zealand and guys from Australia, but I was the only American.  I didn’t mind this.  I always preferred to be the outcast because my differences prompted questions and made conversations begin with little effort. 

I hit it off with a family from Vancouver and met another Canadian couple.  I surprised myself with my progress and was on a roll when someone decided to take this party outside and make it stationary.  The group carried their foaming beers to two picnic tables under the awning.  The night was dark, and we were chilled by the cool London air.  A rambunctious group sipping on their second drinks took their seats and filled up one picnic table.  They smiled and laughed at foreign faces becoming familiar. 

I sat down at the table behind them in a spot less populated and noticeably quieter.  I watched as cliques formed at the other table. As those bonds strengthened, assimilation into that group would become more challenging.  We were all separate, stranded parts joining to build a working body of indeterminate shape.  Our dispositions, our attitudes, and our habits conjoined like a cog hugging a chain and learning to roll together toward a shared future.  Once these ingredients melded, I could be an unnecessary luxury like a bell on a bicycle.  In a network of friends, this is the definition of an acquaintance:  something you could use but easily say goodbye to. 

I wanted to play more of an integral role in a friendship and turned to these strangers sitting next to me.  We all journeyed from faraway homes and sat upon this bench with separate memories but shared questions about the itinerary of tomorrow.  I discovered that many of my fellow table-mates did not care to partake in excessive drinking, and they all had non-imposing demeanors. 

I didn’t follow anyone to this seat; I just happened to pick this one because it was open.  As our conversation developed, I began to see the similarities of our personalities when an outsider infiltrated our flock.

A noisy fellow with unkempt hair took a seat at our table and interrupted our discussion.  He had recently finished a camping trip with Contiki and was celebrating with his life-long friends he discovered on his vacation.  He warned us of perils ahead:  the infamous Contiki cough, the inevitable illness, and the steep prices of Paris.  After advising us not to misjudge muscular men as douche bags because once you approached them they were actually quite friendly, he told us that if we wanted drugs our tour manager could find them for us.  If we wanted weed before we reached Amsterdam, we could get it cheap.

He talked endlessly for at least twenty minutes.  His tales full of debauchery were entertaining and funny, but in his memories were scenes unlikely to match my future.  I didn’t want to drink late into the morning and sleep poorly and wind up too sick to see Rome.  I wanted to practice my French with locals, eat pizza in Italy, and trace my family’s roots in Greece.  Although he proved to be an interesting distraction, the man clearly chose the wrong table.  His time wouldn’t have been wasted with the rowdy bunch drinking refilled beers.  After the man left my table, the rest of us remarked upon his mild insanity and expressed our lack of interest in getting drunk each night. 

I wondered if our firing neurons contained magnets that were somehow aligned with each other’s brains.  There seemed to be invisible forces that caused like-minds to crash into one another and feel at ease.  The people I first sat with ended up being my closest friends on the trip, but I didn’t realize this until the trip was over.  I don’t know if all my strategizing worked.  The herd seemed to form all on its own.   

         

A Word about Hostels

Before I went to Europe, I didn’t know much about hostels except from what I heard about the Eli Roth horror film.  There are hostels in the United States.  Many Americans I’ve spoken to didn’t realize this, so I thought it would be useful to include a word about these cheap accommodations.

Prior to my first night in London, I was worried about securing my bags, so I bought a combination lock because I heard there were lockers or chests in the rooms.  I envisioned a trunk at the foot of a single bed, but I have yet to see this layout. 

At the Astor Hyde Park Hostel in London, the staff members were incredibly friendly.  An Englishman told me my room was on the first floor, so I went about searching for the correct door, which I assumed I could find without ascending any stairs.  There was no doubt in my mind; I had scoured the entirety of the first floor but my room was nowhere to be found.  Obviously, there must be a mistake, I thought.  Or maybe there was a certain sequence of bricks I needed to tap to reveal a trap door.

“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist.  “Did you say my room was on the first floor?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Go up the stairs and it’s on your right.”

This was the first faux pas among a long string of them that I would make on my trip, and I had only landed at Heathrow a few hours ago. 

“That’s right,” I said, “I forgot the Europeans call the first floor the second floor.  Sorry about that.  I’m from the States.”

But what I really meant was:  “Please don’t think I’m an idiot.  It’s just that where I come from, we label our floors differently.”

A card key granted me access to my room.  There were six pairs of bunk beds, most of which were situated against a wall.  My bed was the top bunk in the middle of the room.  This meant that I had to sleep with my iPhone under my pillow and dangle my glasses over the bars that prevented me from rolling onto the floor from my six-foot precipice. 

My first night’s rest in London was perhaps the most agonizing ten hours in recent memory.  Jetlagged and fatigued from a restless twelve-hour flight, I passed out early around 6 PM, a mistake I will never repeat.  I had eaten bangers and mash in the afternoon, but I skipped dinner because I was too tired to walk to a restaurant, let alone chew my food. 

My grumbling stomach woke me around two in the morning, when all the restaurants nearby were closed.  I didn’t trust my foggy mind to navigate the darkened and unfamiliar streets.  I feared that if I were to leave the hostel in search of food I would never make it back to the hostel.  I’d probably end up passing out in Hyde Park and wake up covered in dew. 

But if I stayed I would fail miserably to attain REM, but my obliques would get a nice workout from all that tossing and turning.  In the end, I dug out my Kindle from my bag and read for a few hours with the screen dimmed until my eyelids could no longer prop themselves up on their own.

Below me, a stranger slept.  Below her was a pull-out drawer made out of thin strands of metal that screeched as the bottom dragged against the hardwood floor.  I stuffed my giant backpack inside and locked it.  In the beginning, I locked up everything, even my shoes while I was sleeping. 

In some places, this was impossible, for there was not enough space to accommodate my distrust for strangers.  Dublin’s Spire Hostel, a mediocre shelter, offered no free lockers, so I shoved everything under my bed, hoping that bending over or kneeling on the dusty floor would deter thieves.  During the day, I carried my valuables in my bag, and at night I slept with him.  Eventually I understood there was an unspoken rule among the backpackers:  Don’t steal my stuff, and I won’t steal yours.

Everyone I met at the hostels was very friendly and personable.  Most people were wanderers from all over the globe.  Nearly everyone staying in hostels has a fascinating itinerary (more fascinating than grocery store and post office errands) and will divulge their reasons for traveling without being prompted.  In Oxford, for example, I met an Australian girl who told me this: 

“Every night when I came home from work, I would just cry.  And I’m not one of those girly types who cries for no reason.  I usually cry once a year, just get it all out and then it starts to build up again.  So I thought, I have to get out.  I hate my job.  I needed to get out.”

When she told me this, we had not exchanged names yet.  She knew very little about me, but, despite this, she shared her background and a few Starbursts with me. 

All of the hostels where I stayed had lounges and kitchens.  I didn’t fully utilize these at first, except during breakfast.  Many hostels offer a free meal with the usual buffet items:  cereal, toast, jam, peanut butter, Nutella, juice, coffee, and tea.  The food is fairly standard, and you can eat as much as you want, except for some stingy hostels that charge for the meal.  But even when you have to pay, you’d be hard pressed to find a cheaper way to break your fast in the morning. 

Due to my frugal nature and lack of employment for two months during this trip to Europe, I strategized to save money.  When free breakfast was offered, I ate as much as I could without looking like a mooch so that I wouldn’t have to spend as much money filling my stomach in the evenings.  Breakfast is usually offered for two to three hours, before the shops and museums open.  I would often stay for a few hours to read my Kindle and gorge myself gradually. 

For lunch, I would often buy a sandwich from a little shop and eat it in a park or consume it in the hostel lounge.  The Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh, Scotland had a humongous, two-storied lounge.  There was ample seating and the Wi-Fi worked extremely well (usually it is slow because so many people are using it).  They offer free tea and coffee all day long.  You could play pool or snooker if you wanted.  This hostel even had a movie viewing room.  Each day at 6:00 PM, there would be a Scottish film and at 9:00 PM the hostel staff would play a well-known title like Inception.  By far, the Castle Rock in Edinburgh offered the best amenities.  They had everything I needed, even a computer lab where I could print out a boarding pass, and the staff was very accommodating. 

The Spire Hostel in Dublin, on the other hand, was the worst and also the cheapest.  I eventually learned at those two adjectives go hand in hand.  Three pairs of bunk beds were crammed into a space that could comfortably fit a queen-sized bed.  If a fat man were to sleep above me in the top bunk, the force of his gravity would undoubtedly sag onto my face if I slept on my back.  The bathroom was even more inconvenient.

In the sinks there are two faucets:  one for hot water and the other for cold water.  There are no knobs to twist.  If you press down on the cold water button, a powerful stream of water will erupt from the pipe and soak the bottom of your shirt.  After dousing a few outfits, I learned to press the button and jump back until the rainstorm abated.  Then I scrubbed my hands in the three-second window when the water was calm. 

The shower, too, had to be timed.  I closed the frosted glass doors and tapped the button under the shower head, which emitted a comfortably warm spray that surprisingly did not induce pain.  As I shampooed my hair, the water shut off, so I pushed the button again.  The water resumed.  I rinsed my hair and reached for my body wash when the water shut off again.  I pressed the button once more and counted to fifteen before the shower again took its scheduled break. 

Henceforth, the cleansing process became rhythmic.  With one hand scrubbing my body, the other hand bumped the button to rejuvenate the water supply.  I was constantly aware of how much time I had left until the water shut off.  I suspect if I had to stay there any longer, I would develop a rare form of Tourette’s syndrome active only in the shower.  Upon returning home, I would twitch and readjust the knobs and hit an imaginary button on the wall to guarantee a seamless flow of water.

Some of the hostels had on-suite bathrooms, whereas others had a shared latrine on a certain floor, wing, or corridor.  Everyone shared the facilities, which were equipped with several unisex stalls and showers.  Some places separated genders, and some didn’t. 

 

The first time I saw a woman in the same bathroom as me I wondered if I entered the wrong room, so I double-checked the emblem on the door.  It showed both the male and female symbols.  I returned to my sink and continued to shave my beard while the girl beside me applied her make-up.  The scene was particularly European.  Even in the bathroom, I was basking in culture. 

Aside from the bathrooms, the most important feature of a hostel is the kitchen.  Kitchens are crucial if you want to save money by avoiding expensive restaurant meals.  I saw how silly it was to diminish my budget by eating $20 dinners every night, so I started buying groceries that were easy to cook and simple to store.  I didn’t buy anything that needed multiple ingredients, and fortunately most hostels provided butter or oil so you wouldn’t buy four sticks to only use a sliver.  The spacious kitchen in Edinburgh was inviting because I didn’t have to wait for a stove to open up, but the cramped galley-kitchen in Dublin discouraged me from cooking.

The beds serve their purpose, but you get what you pay for.  At the Nos Da Hostel in Cardiff, Wales, I could feel the springs dig into my spine, and I could hear a man snoring next door.  Either his snoring is thunderous, or the walls are thin, just like the limp pillows provided.

If there were vacant beds, I would steal their extra pillows and sleep on an extra layer of down to cushion myself against those wrathful springs.  In Cardiff, I had a room with ten beds all to myself.  I stuffed so many pillows onto my bed that the housekeeping staff would’ve thought I hosted a slumber party on my mattress.  However, the bed upon which I slept in Liverpool would rival the comfort of my own, but my slumber in this temporary home was more costly.  As the prices get higher, the pillows grow thicker.

I used to eye my bunkmates with suspicion, as though they aimed to steal my Nikes when I dozed off.  But I soon realized that hostels are great places to make friends who share the same dreams as well as the same suspicions as you.     

The Perils of Civilization

I was looking forward to a night in a hotel.  I craved a cozy bed, pillows thicker than a slice of bread, and, most of all, privacy.  After sleeping on the top bunk in overcrowded hotels for three weeks, I was ready to return to a physical space that resembled my life at home. 

But, alas, my wishes were only partly realized.  When I booked a European tour with Con-tiki, I bought one additional night’s stay at the Royal National Hotel in London.  I had made the arrangements months ago, but I expected the place to be posh.  I mean, royal is in the name.  The Overlook Hotel from The Shining would have been more appealing.

 

Much to my consternation, I discovered upon opening the door that I was sharing this room with someone I never met.  Our twin beds are two feet apart.  

Sleeping in a large room with multiple strangers allowed for anonymity, but this set-up allowed no room for shyness.  If you farted in the dark at a hostel, you'd have a legitimate mystery and enough space to hide your embarrassment in the shadows, but there is no room for secrets in this cramped hotel room.  I had planned to hand-wash my socks and underwear in the sink.  Then I would splay them all over the room to dry, but I abandoned this plan.  I thought it impudent to expose my undergarments with a roommate bound to barge in any moment. 

After the initial awkwardness, I accepted my fate and vowed to embrace this night’s rest lying next to a complete stranger.  In order to learn more about this man before meeting him, I inspected the tag on his luggage.  He arrived in Heathrow Airport the day before.  His name is Brok, and he flew in from Malaysia.  The pair of jeans strewn across the carpet alerted me to his gender.  The Malaysian airport seemed to signify he was Asian, but his Lonely Planet Europe guide was printed in English.  Superior detectives would have found meaning in these clues.  When I met him later that night, he told me he’s from Australia.  He is a very confident and cordial fellow with impeccable comedic timing.  He’s the sort of guy I would want my sister to date if I had a sister.     

Although I only received half of the privacy I wished for, staying in the Royal National Hotel in London enabled me to see what life was truly like in the past.  To achieve this effect, museums were not as successful in their attempts to bring historical artifacts to life.  In my hotel room, there is a giant box television from the 1990s.  When I pressed the ON button on the set, nothing happened.  Oddly enough, I flicked a switch on the wall and the local news turned on.  The image was grainy, and the people spoke tonelessly as though their voices were filtered through those old telephones with spirally cords.  I tried to change the channel, but the button did not work.  I suspect if I called guest services, they would send up a rare electrician who specializes in cathode ray tubes. 

 
When I took a shower in the narrow tub, the water sprayed me as though erupting from an inverted geyser.  A vent opposite the nozzle blew hurricane winds that forced the shower curtain to flap wildly.  The curtain clung to my wet skin, so I placed it on the outside of the tub to avoid its embrace.  Although I was free of the curtain’s clutches, this minor change turned the bathroom into a small pool. 

The air from the vent and the aggressive spout spit water all over the place.  The curtain absorbed some of the blasts, and the water trickled down to the bottom and dripped onto the minor lake forming on the floor. 

Slightly mortified but at the least refreshed, I stepped outside the tub and into the ankle-deep puddle, and thought, “This must be what life was like during the first hiccups of indoor plumbing.”  After the violent experience, I vowed to take the rest of my baths in the River Thames. 

To make matters worse, I was down to my last pair of underwear, and I desperately needed to wash my clothes before beginning a 35-day tour through Europe.  Since I would be living in a tent for the next five weeks, I vowed to find a rinse cycle before leaving English-speaking lands.  I discovered a card advertising laundry service for the equivalent of $30.  I wondered if my clothes would be hand-washed with imported soaps made from the fats of endangered species and then flown to France where they could dry in the elegant breezes of a lavender field. 

The placard also indicated that while the housekeeping staff promises to fold items carefully, they will not bother to sort the darks from the whites.  Should you lose a button or perhaps misplace the engagement ring you left in the back pocket of your jeans, the hotel staff will not be held responsible. 

 

As I did not wish to pay this outrageous price, I searched the streets for a Laundromat.  I stumbled upon the closest one I could find within a two-mile radius situated in a quiet neighborhood.  For one wash cycle, the price was eight dollars.  If you wished to dry your load for an hour that would cost you an additional eight dollars, but I could not guarantee that would do the trick for my extra-large load.  I calculated that detergent would cost me at least four dollars, but the smallest bottle had a 16-load capacity.  I could generously donate the rest of my detergent to the washer-less citizens of London, or waste time trying to find a smaller packet of detergent, or use none at all. 

Due to my unfavorable options, I guiltily surrendered to the most expensive laundry service I have ever encountered.  

Should I return to this godforsaken hotel, I will use the sink and hand-wash my clothes with the complimentary bar of soap.  If I’m feeling particularly bitter, I’ll leave the faucet running all night, too, just to even the score. 

Don't Do This at Home

I surprised myself when I plopped down on a cushy leather couch in the cramped lounge of the Oxford hostel.  Usually I retire to the semi-privacy of my bunk bed and hold a book in front of my face to avoid eye contact with my fellow hostellers.  A pretty blond woman with glasses and soft, unintimidating features was already seated on the couch.  Due to her gentle appearance, I sat next to her devoid of any self-consciousness. 

On the television, there was a singing competition between all the European nations.  The singer who represented Austria was wearing a dress but sported a thick beard as well.  I turned to the woman next to me.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the man on the screen.

“It is a singing competition between all the countries in Europe,” she answered.

“No, I mean that guy singing. Is he a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know.”

With the ice successfully broken, I began to systematically turn this stranger into an acquaintance.  Her name is Annika, and she is from Finland.  She interns at a travel agency in London and decided to visit Oxford during the weekend. 

“Can’t people make their own travel arrangements?” I asked.  “It’s not difficult to book a hotel.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why people can’t,” she said.  “Most old people call me because they don’t know how to use the computer.”

We talked about where we have been.  She worked as an au pair in Boston and met her boyfriend’s family in Chile.  Finland and Chile are on opposite sides of the globe.  I don’t think you could pick two countries that are farther apart, yet the two managed to meet in Boston.  After hearing this, I recalled my Chilean friend Benjamin’s words, which I heard in Liverpool:  “These days the borders are becoming invisible.”

When Annika asked me where I’ve been, I proceeded to talk endlessly about my volunteer trip to Ghana.  Since I hadn’t done much talking in the past few days while I was marooned inside an empty hostel in rainy Cardiff, a flood of words gushed out of my mouth.  I was binge-socializing.  I can’t say that I had full control of my thoughts because I was intoxicated with words, but I knew that after this brief flood, a drought was due.

I told her about Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux, the book I was reading at the time.  Theroux travels by land from Egypt to South Africa and educates the reader about each country he visits along the way.  I explained how the book made me rethink my volunteering efforts.  For one month, I taught English and French to young Ghanaians living about an hour’s drive from the capital city of Accra. 

I wouldn’t say I was so naïve and idealistic as to believe I was changing the world.  My main motivation was to add some excitement to my credentials and even to boost my resume.  My upbringing was relatively normal.  I lived a safe, somewhat sheltered life that translates to dry reading material.  A trip to the third-world was just what I needed to spruce up my existence and save me from the perils of mediocrity. 

My endeavors were not entirely heartless.  I was also motivated by my Togolese friends whom I met at the restaurant where I worked.  My friends were dishwashers at the restaurant and janitors at the airport.  They worked menial and unfulfilling jobs for ninety hours a week to send money home to their families.  Compared to these guys, I was privileged to live in a trailer park and still own thirty pairs of shoes as an adolescent.  These guys were working the crappy jobs that white Americans wouldn’t take, so I wanted to put myself in their position and see where they came from.  What were they escaping?  I wanted to find out, so I went to West Africa.

While I was engaged in a battle to improve the English of a few small-town kids, I believed I was making a slight difference, but Theroux made me think otherwise.  Theroux is not a fan of donor aid because African nations often grow dependent upon outside help.  Volunteers take jobs away from the natives.  As long as there is unemployment in Africa, there will be poverty.  The greedy and seedy governments need their citizens to remain poor so that the affluent politicians can stay in power.  If all the volunteers had stayed at home and contented themselves with their comparatively pristine childhoods, then local Africans would be forced to fill in those jobs. 

I began to wonder if charitable efforts may do more harm than good on a grand scale.  Volunteers can help a few individuals, but they can’t change an entire society.  When is the last time a foreign population peacefully invaded a country and improved social welfare?  Exploitation is a more likely outcome.  The citizens of a nation need to fix their own countries. 

 
“When you have a cold,” I said to Annika, “your body fights off the sickness by raising your body temperature until your fever breaks.  If you take medicine, the pills will reduce your temperature.  Your symptoms won’t be as severe, but you’ll be sick for a longer period of time.”

 

Volunteers, I was learning, only alleviated the pain, but they did not eliminate the disease.  We are a very caring and cooperative species, so we offer help to our fellow humans.  We are too kind and too humane to stand idle while others suffer.  Reading Theroux’s work has nearly persuaded me to let nature run its course.  Our sentimentality is indirectly destructive. 

If volunteers were to stop working all over the developing world, educational opportunities may be lost.  If we stopped sending food, water purifiers, and other supplies, the death rate would most likely increase in the beginning.  Sacrifices would be made, but eventually the locals would have no option but to change for the better or else perish.

Or certain nations could thrive without the help of outsiders.  Donor companies could be trying to force a square peg into a circular hole.  Maybe African countries need to adapt into a different kind of society devoid of Western influence.  When I was in Ghana, all the kids wanted to go to America.  Even though none of my students had been there, they wished their country was more like the United States.  Why should we impose our standards onto them?

 

We may assume that certain African countries are undeveloped because their societies do not resemble ours.  Compared to countries like England or Germany, African nations have catching up to do.  But maybe they shouldn’t plunge forward into the modern world of capitalism, cars, and overpopulation.  Maybe they should move backwards to the simpler lifestyles embraced before Europeans invaded. 

After I concluded my unprompted lecture, I asked Annika about Finland and the Finnish language.  A former roommate of mine knew how to speak Russian.  When we were discussing useful languages to learn, he mentioned that it was impractical for an outsider to learn Finnish.  The only people who speak Finnish are people from Finland.  Since Finland does not have any former colonies, its language resides largely within its borders.  In order to be qualified for more job opportunities, many people in Finland learn English, the language of international business. 

“Does your grandma speak English?” I asked Annika.

“No.  Only Finnish.  My parents were the first generation to learn English,” she said.

“So you speak English, and when you have kids they’ll learn even more English.  By the time they have kids, Finnish may take the back-seat.” 

“The Finns are too proud to let their language go,” Annika said. 

As an American sitting on an imported couch in England conversing with a Finnish woman while watching an international singing competition, I realized how important it is to retain and celebrate cultural differences before we all bleed into a Spanglish-speaking mulatto species.  But, realistically, this will never happen. 

I remembered an exhibit I saw that day in an Oxford museum about Darwin’s discovery of evolution and adaptation.  Biodiversity enabled creatures on Earth to survive.  Some animals developed fins to swim through water while others learned to walk upright, and the rest grew wings and took to the skies.  The species diverged and became different so that we could more effectively share the planet’s resources.  If we all walked on land and left the sea empty, we’d run out of food.  Even the human race needs to be diverse to ensure the survival of our species and our separate cultures.

As the English language creates its own sunset-less empire, I wonder how this will affect the make-up of the world.  Will our separate nationalities flourish symbiotically, or soon will there be languages that follow the panda as endangered species?  Will Facebook homogenize a cultural blend?  I suspect these questions may only be answered by great-grandchildren who haven’t been born yet, but I am consoled by the number of close-minded, stubborn people I’ve met.  These are the kind of Americans who are outraged when schools encourage students to learn Spanish due to the rising Latino population.  “In America we don’t speak Mexican,” a proud American will say.  At least we can rely on these people to never abandon their language and culture. 

     

 

Smoking Fags (Cigarettes)

I don’t think I could live in a crowded British city because the sidewalks provide inadequate space, there’s always a possibility for rain, and it seems like nearly everyone smokes here. 

At the hostel, I met a British man named Sam who was rolling a cigarette.  His job at a rental car service was stressful, and the stress visibly infiltrated the rest of his life.  He appeared very bitter and resentful toward Americans who generally don’t read the insurance claim forms and are surprised when they must fork over cash after totaling a car that doesn’t belong to them.  I decided not to pursue this topic and instead focused on the work of his fingers.  I asked him why smoking cigarettes seemed to be the national sport in England.

“Before 2006, you could smoke everywhere:  restaurants, clubs, even airplanes,” Sam said.  “It’s very popular here and always has been.  I think a few years ago, like, seventy percent of people who could smoke smoked.” 

Sam exaggerated a little, but a lot of people used to smoke in England.  In 1974, 51% of men and 41% of women smoked cigarettes, almost half of the population.  Nowadays, roughly one-sixth of the English suck on cancer-sticks.  The average English smoker goes through 750 cigarettes per year, compared to an American smoker puffing on just over a thousand.  

In 2012 census, the national smoking rate in the United States dropped significantly since 1965, when 42% of adults smoked compared to today’s number of 21%.  Poorer areas like rural Kentucky and West Virginia show a smaller decline.  I might smoke, too, if I lived in Kentucky and had limited cultural resources.  There are places in America where walking around Wal-Mart is considered fun because there is nothing else to do for the unimaginative mind. 

 

In more populated, urban areas such as New York City, D.C., Miami, and southern California, smoking rates are depleting much faster, probably because they have more options for entertainment and stimulation.  Residents in popular locations may also be more health conscious due to the sex appeal associated with areas such as Miami Beach or Los Angeles. 

My theory is that working-class people smoke not only to escape the stress of the job, but to keep themselves busy.  Smoking is a distraction from undesirable tasks and an oral fixation.  A disciplined mind will use free time to improve health and status through self-education or exercise.  A determined person with long-time goals should realize that smoking hinders one’s health and finances, and ultimately is a horrible idea if you want to make progress.  But failures, dissatisfaction, or lack of opportunity could motivate a person to pick up the self-destructive habit.  This is evident in the extremely high rates of smoking in countries like Greece, whose economy crumbled after the worldwide recession in 2008. 

Several actors in the Golden Age of Hollywood were constantly followed by gray plumes.  The Don Drapers of the fifties added even more allure.  But the habit is no longer associated with beauty, sophistication, or success.  Smoking is linked with poverty, depression, and lack of cultural enlightenment.

As I watched Sam sprinkle tobacco onto white paper and roll that into a tube, I wondered if those stupid and nagging car-renters poked too many holes in his happiness, and now he has to fill in those gaping wounds with cigarettes.  He said he preferred the taste of pure tobacco, and he didn’t have to smoke too many to achieve the desired effect.  On his pack of tobacco, there is a giant label that says SMOKING KILLS, and I contemplated what effect he was trying to find.

Sam justified his habit by claiming that smoking didn’t kill as many people as alcohol did.  In my mind, the numbers didn’t matter; death was a likely possibility.  Hippos in the wild kill more people each year than alligators do, but that doesn’t motivate me to jump into a swamp full of gators.

I thought he needed to find another hobby.  Maybe if he could revel in the satisfaction of a hard day’s work, he wouldn’t need to smoke.  If literature satiated his curiosity, he could replace cigarettes with books.  If he could truly love a woman rather than look upon her with a possessive gaze, he would have no emptiness that needed to be filled.    

A Chase in the Park

The sun’s rays were softening and diminishing with each minute that ticked away.  Sunset was scheduled in just shy of an hour as I walked north along the river’s edge in Cardiff, Wales.  Bute Park was on the other side of the water, but the first walking bridge I encountered was fenced off.  I continued onward until I reached a small waterfall on top of which was a bridge with no barriers.  I traversed.  

On the opposite side of the river, I came upon yet another fence.  A few locals nonchalantly climbed over it by using a stone that seemed designed for aiding trespassers.  The ascent looked easy.  A woman approaching me from beyond the barrier hoisted one leg over the fence as though mounting a horse and then swung her other leg over and hopped onto the ground.  Her fluid motion led me to believe this was a habitual practice and, therefore, not frowned upon.  I, too, hurdled the fence and sauntered into the forbidden Bute Park, which officially closed fifteen minutes ago.   

There were exercise stations spread throughout the park.  I managed to do ten pull-ups at the first station, and at the next I climbed the monkey bars.  By this time, the light was fading, and a soft grey shadow spread across the fields as the sun began its disappearing act.  A few cyclists and joggers whizzed by me in both directions.  I was comforted by their presence.  At least I wasn’t the only one trespassing.  If I were caught by the authorities, not only could I plead ignorance since I am foreign, but I could also indicate that everybody else was doing it, too. 

I continued my childish game of exercise and gripped two horizontal poles, bent my legs, and lifted them off the ground.  As I shrugged my shoulders and inched my sweaty palms forward on the bars and traveled leglessly, I noticed a middle-aged man wearing a black beanie pass me on his bike.  Since he was traveling in the opposite direction, I could see his face but the scant light concealed any remarkable details beyond a generic description:  white man, brown hair, average height.  I thought nothing of him until I reached the next exercise station when I spotted him walking his bike a few paces behind me.  Maybe he had reached the barrier and decided to head home. 

 
While inventing explanations for the man’s presence, I traveled onward up the concrete path when I reached a fork in the road.  The left arced around a garden and led into the center of the park, whereas the right curved toward the river again.  I chose the path on the right, and the strange man followed.  As I inspected the outskirts of the garden away from the pavement, I saw him approach me.  Before he could pass me, my eye was attracted to these vibrant flowers in the middle of a field, so I jogged toward them and snapped a photo in the depleting sunlight.  

As I was composing the picture, the man passed me on the right and headed up a dirt path surrounded by trees.  I could smell the marijuana on him. 
 
Darkness was falling, and images of Deliverance briefly flashed across my mind.  Horrid thoughts of being raped by a savage man in the wilderness motivated me to seek the shelter and safety of the hostel.  I reached the path again, and in front of me I saw the man at a three-way intersection:  the dirt path he took, the pavement I was treading on, and the fenced-off bridge.  He was standing still, as though waiting for divine intervention to choose his path for him.  Or maybe he was waiting for me to decide.

I approached him confidently and yet casually so as not to show the fear rising inside me.  I did not want him to know what I was thinking.  At this point, my rational hypotheses regarding his behavior no longer seemed applicable.  I was convinced he was following me for reasons unknown to me, and I wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.  If not for the combination of moonlight and light pollution from the city nearby, I would have been swathed in complete darkness.

The man was still standing near the intersection.  When I came within a few feet of him, I could make out the stubble on his beard and the gray hairs that clung to his temple. 

He fit the image of The Bad Guy invented by my grandma to prevent me from making noises after bed-time.  After tucking my brother and me into bed, she told us not to talk, or else The Bad Guy would hear us outside.  Apparently, he strolled around the neighborhood after dark listening for the hushed conversations of children.  When he heard a naughty boy talking after bed-time, he would knock on the door, and the adult in the household would have to give up the child to The Bad Guy.  If you were caught, he would eat you. 

Although I had never completely believed this cannibalistic folklore, I never completely doubted it either, so I usually stayed quiet after lights-out.  Although my grandma never recounted this tale in much visual detail, I had always imagined The Bad Guy would have black stubble and rough skin on his face.  In my mind, he wore a brown cowboy hat and always squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, because he never wanted you to know what was going on inside his head.

The man in the park was wearing a black beanie, not a cowboy hat, but he stared at me intently while I considered my escape route in my calmest manner possible.  I tried to compose myself as though stumped with a decision of which brand of yogurt to buy, but really the alarms inside my cranium were blaring at full-blast and my terror level was elevated to RED.

As a last resort to convince myself I was being silly, I considered that maybe the man worked at the park and he was corralling the final visitors and encouraging them to exit promptly.  But then again, if he were a park ranger, he would’ve reminded me that the park was closed.  He didn’t say a word to me, so I went back to assuming he was a creep who either wanted to steal something that I needed or give me something that I didn’t want. 

I started crossing the bridge, which had no barrier on this side of the river.  As I reached the fence at the end, I looked behind me.  The man was rapidly walking his bike on the bridge toward me.  If I didn’t jump over this fence now, I would be trapped between the barrier and this mysterious stranger. 

I gripped the cold, metal bars, slick with rainwater and swung up my legs over the railing.  For a brief second, I envisioned slipping on the wet terrain and falling prey to the maniac, but instead I landed on the trail and began walking briskly toward the streets of Cardiff, relatively illuminated compared to the dark park.  I did not want to immediately run because I did not want to alarm the man and let him know I was aware of his intentions.  He had a bicycle and could catch up to me with relative ease, so I was forced to strategize.  I watched him over my shoulder and waited until he was preoccupied with hoisting his bike over the fence.  With his attention diverted, I sprinted up the path until I reached the sidewalk. 

I learned this trick from my days running cross-country in high school.  When you round a bend, you should quickly surge ahead because your opponent can’t see you.  When the path straightens out again, your opponent’s morale is debilitated because seemingly you increased your pace, but really you didn’t. You have a brief speed burst and then resume your previous pace.  This illusion is enough to widen the gap and discourage the pursuer from catching up to you.  He realizes now that he’ll have to expend more energy than expected——energy he may not possess.

On the sidewalk, I blended into a crowd of pedestrians and shrouded myself with the hood of my rain jacket.  I ducked inside a convenience store and pretended to search for a Reese’s candy bar.  From reading numerous detective novels, I learned that if you are being followed, never lead your pursuer directly to your safe haven.  When I was fairly certain I evaded my tail, I headed toward the hostel.

In all fairness, the man may have been riding home, and our paths could have been coincidental.  My paranoia could have dramatized the entire episode, but I prefer to think he offered me a sinister look when I met his gaze at the crossroads.  Without that menacing stare, there would be no adrenaline rush, no suspense, and ultimately no story.  I face such little danger these days, so it is nice to have a taste every now and then.