Only in Europe

I got the day off for Memorial Day, so I did what every self-respecting American does on this day: I hung out by my apartment complex's pool and read a book on presidential assassinations. It’s called Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell and it’s excellent. She starts out explaining how she relates her world to all the presidential assassinations, out of habit or intrigue. There were a lot of get-togethers with friends where I didn’t hear half of what was being said because I was sitting there, silently chiding myself, Don’t bring up McKinley. Don’t bring up McKinley. I thought about what I relate to my day-to-day experiences on a constant basis.

This weekend, three day weekends sometimes do this, has felt like a month. Maybe it’s because of the upcoming changes that could take place in my life, or the actual time I’ve had to sit and relax and read. My dad just called to arrange travel to LA in August. I feel like I can’t say anything because I don’t know anything yet.

A month after I graduated from college, I met my college friend and boyfriend to go backpacking through Europe for two weeks. They had both been studying abroad for the semester in England, so we met in London and headed to Paris right away. Looking back I had known all along, like most people know when things are too good to be true.

My boyfriend and I broke up in Venice. After the semester abroad things had changed. We still had a majority of the trip left so it was almost impossible to recover immediately. In fact, it would take months of not talking to each other in Boston, then our two best friends from college (one was on this trip) wedding, before we really found a place in each other’s lives again.

After a couple of tense days in Italy, finding some quiet in a couple playing the violin and cello on the streets of Florence, we headed towards Marseille on our way to Barcelona. We arrived in Marseille at the beginning of dusk, and using my newly ex-boyfriends broken French, made it to the right bus on our way to the hotel. We had made this our only hotel reservation, thinking it would be a nice break from all the people and hostels. He asked the bus driver where exactly the hotel was located and the driver kept pointing and speaking in French.

When we got off the bus he revealed that he didn’t really understand the bus driver but that maybe we should just start walking. In the tired, dusk heat we lugged our packs up the countryside hill for about an hour, back and forth. When we walked too far we doubted ourselves and turned onto another street. We hadn’t eaten anything in hours. Cars passed by us; the sun was setting and we were lost in the outskirts of the unfriendly city of Marseille. Then we finally found it.

When we got to the front steps a middle-aged Frenchman greeted us with a warm smile. He helped us into the hotel (which turned out to be more like a bed and breakfast. There were only about five rooms). He offered to drive my ex-boyfriend to a local pizza place, and they had to hurry because it was about to close. I showered while we waited, in what felt like a shower that was created just for me to use at this exact moment. It felt good to finally wash the day off.

We sat in their kitchen eating warm pizza with olives in the middle. The Frenchman’s partner, an American, was watching an Italian movie with French subtitles. He laughed and said: only in Europe. We told him about our upcoming moves to Boston and Chicago, and he told us a story about freezing on the T in mid-March. His partner cooked dinner while we talked. It was around 10 p.m. by the time we excused ourselves so they could eat their dinner alone.

Even then I knew. I knew there would be years to come before I found the peace they had found in the mountains of southern France. Before I could even begin to recapture what I felt in the mountains in Boone. What I hadn’t thought about before then was how much it would be worth it to go through everything to get there.

In the morning we swam in the pool and relaxed before our train ride down the coast of France. The Frenchman checked us out of the hotel, saying good-bye for his partner as well; he had been up late writing and was still asleep when we left. He wished us luck on our journeys, and we left: walked up the path to the road to catch the bus back into Marseille.