Jetlaggy thoughts
I estimate that I got about an hour’s worth of sleep on Wednesday night. I’m still not over my jetlag just yet, and I’m suffering from something that I have named Acute Paris Overstimulation Syndrome, or APOS for short.
APOS is caused by excessive exposure to mouthwatering culinary delicacies and incredibly stylish and attractive people; it is exacerbated by repeated social interactions occurring in an unfamiliar culture. Sometimes when I sink gratefully into bed, I close my eyes and all I can see are melon macaroons and oeufs en gelée and little pots of fromage blanc and men wearing crisp, gorgeously tailored suits and tottering old ladies mincing down the sidewalk on swollen feet that have been stuffed into tiny, pointy shoes. These images fly around my brain for hours and I toss and turn, unable to quiet my mind into sleep. I have traveled a bit in life already, but somehow the assimilation part keeps growing more intense as I get older. As does the jetlag, unfortunately.
This sense of overstimulation is precisely why I travel, and I don’t mind the sleeplessness much because it’s a sign that I’m not yet inured to the experience of immersing myself in a new place. I suspect that I am addicted to traveling for the exact same reason that other people despise it. There is something so amazing about finding yourself somewhere entirely unfamiliar; it is hard and painful at times, but it also forces growth. And humility.
Living in a foreign country can be hard work. Every day I encounter a new challenge that makes me feel inept or embarrassed. On my first day in my new apartment building, it took me five minutes to figure out how to unlock the door that leads out onto the street. I tried everything I could think of and it just wouldn’t budge. Finally, with panic rising in my throat (“I’m gonna DIE in this place!”), I noticed a small switch in a dark corner. One of the buttons was marked “Porte.” One click and I was out, cheeks burning scarlet at my incompetence.
Figuring out what kind of Metro pass to buy and when, setting up my DSL connection, buying a mobile phone and understanding how my plan works, grappling with my stove, my dishwasher and my microwave, voltage converters, bus routes, where to pay in stores, who to pay, how to pay (since many of my U.S. credit cards don’t seem to work), wondering do I choose the fruit or does the man choose the fruit for me depending on when I plan to eat it…good lord! Then there’s the constant stress of trying to offer the correct change to merchants when I haven’t figured out the money just yet, and a line of people is patiently watching me fumble and scrutinize every coin. And another hurdle still looms before me: the laundromat.
Yes, I can see why some people dislike traveling. You have to pull yourself up and admit, “It’s true, I am not entirely sure that what I am buying is in fact laundry detergent. It may well be dish soap or fabric softener or water softener. It may take me five minutes to find the correct change to pay you, madame. But this does not make me a bad person. And tomorrow, after a few false starts, I will have clean clothes and I will have learned something new.”
But sometimes all this new stuff can wear a girl down. A few days ago I got to school really early, and so had an hour to waste before class started. I was feeling kind of crappy. My feet hurt, my shoulders ached from lugging my giant bag around the city, and I think the APOS had progressed into a more sinister form of crankiness and mental fatigue. The Tuileries beckoned.
It was sunny and lunchtime, and the perimeter of the gardens was filled with people relaxing in the warm air and lounging on the chairs that float around the park, free for use by anybody quick enough to claim them. I found an empty one (empty probably because it was missing a slat, but it was good enough for my purposes) and plunked myself down. The flower beds are stuffed with vibrant yellow and pink blooms right now, and the effect is so bright that the gardens almost seem to glow. I pulled out my old, tattered Newsweek from a few weeks ago and began to bask.
Everything seemed to be moving slooooowly. Some people dozed or read novels, others strolled, and glasses clinked at the little restaurant nearby. A couple sat down near me and pulled out a very civilized little picnic of salad and fruit. My crankiness was gradually absorbed by the sunshine. I walked back to school refreshed.
I really appreciate the fact that this city has not forgotten how to relax. I like that I can sit around and read or think or drink a glass of wine, and nobody makes me feel guilty for not being productive or working out or running errands or doing any of the countless other things that we’re supposed to do all day long until we drop dead of exhaustion.
So I guess that’s why I love to travel to new places. Because after I find the correct change, buy my fruit in the proper way and pick out something resembling laundry detergent, I get to sit in the Tuileries and count my blessings.
APOS is caused by excessive exposure to mouthwatering culinary delicacies and incredibly stylish and attractive people; it is exacerbated by repeated social interactions occurring in an unfamiliar culture. Sometimes when I sink gratefully into bed, I close my eyes and all I can see are melon macaroons and oeufs en gelée and little pots of fromage blanc and men wearing crisp, gorgeously tailored suits and tottering old ladies mincing down the sidewalk on swollen feet that have been stuffed into tiny, pointy shoes. These images fly around my brain for hours and I toss and turn, unable to quiet my mind into sleep. I have traveled a bit in life already, but somehow the assimilation part keeps growing more intense as I get older. As does the jetlag, unfortunately.
This sense of overstimulation is precisely why I travel, and I don’t mind the sleeplessness much because it’s a sign that I’m not yet inured to the experience of immersing myself in a new place. I suspect that I am addicted to traveling for the exact same reason that other people despise it. There is something so amazing about finding yourself somewhere entirely unfamiliar; it is hard and painful at times, but it also forces growth. And humility.
Living in a foreign country can be hard work. Every day I encounter a new challenge that makes me feel inept or embarrassed. On my first day in my new apartment building, it took me five minutes to figure out how to unlock the door that leads out onto the street. I tried everything I could think of and it just wouldn’t budge. Finally, with panic rising in my throat (“I’m gonna DIE in this place!”), I noticed a small switch in a dark corner. One of the buttons was marked “Porte.” One click and I was out, cheeks burning scarlet at my incompetence.
Figuring out what kind of Metro pass to buy and when, setting up my DSL connection, buying a mobile phone and understanding how my plan works, grappling with my stove, my dishwasher and my microwave, voltage converters, bus routes, where to pay in stores, who to pay, how to pay (since many of my U.S. credit cards don’t seem to work), wondering do I choose the fruit or does the man choose the fruit for me depending on when I plan to eat it…good lord! Then there’s the constant stress of trying to offer the correct change to merchants when I haven’t figured out the money just yet, and a line of people is patiently watching me fumble and scrutinize every coin. And another hurdle still looms before me: the laundromat.
Yes, I can see why some people dislike traveling. You have to pull yourself up and admit, “It’s true, I am not entirely sure that what I am buying is in fact laundry detergent. It may well be dish soap or fabric softener or water softener. It may take me five minutes to find the correct change to pay you, madame. But this does not make me a bad person. And tomorrow, after a few false starts, I will have clean clothes and I will have learned something new.”
But sometimes all this new stuff can wear a girl down. A few days ago I got to school really early, and so had an hour to waste before class started. I was feeling kind of crappy. My feet hurt, my shoulders ached from lugging my giant bag around the city, and I think the APOS had progressed into a more sinister form of crankiness and mental fatigue. The Tuileries beckoned.
It was sunny and lunchtime, and the perimeter of the gardens was filled with people relaxing in the warm air and lounging on the chairs that float around the park, free for use by anybody quick enough to claim them. I found an empty one (empty probably because it was missing a slat, but it was good enough for my purposes) and plunked myself down. The flower beds are stuffed with vibrant yellow and pink blooms right now, and the effect is so bright that the gardens almost seem to glow. I pulled out my old, tattered Newsweek from a few weeks ago and began to bask.
Everything seemed to be moving slooooowly. Some people dozed or read novels, others strolled, and glasses clinked at the little restaurant nearby. A couple sat down near me and pulled out a very civilized little picnic of salad and fruit. My crankiness was gradually absorbed by the sunshine. I walked back to school refreshed.
I really appreciate the fact that this city has not forgotten how to relax. I like that I can sit around and read or think or drink a glass of wine, and nobody makes me feel guilty for not being productive or working out or running errands or doing any of the countless other things that we’re supposed to do all day long until we drop dead of exhaustion.
So I guess that’s why I love to travel to new places. Because after I find the correct change, buy my fruit in the proper way and pick out something resembling laundry detergent, I get to sit in the Tuileries and count my blessings.
posted by cindym at 1:12 PM
4 Comments:
What a wonderful post! I haven't travelled out of the country that many times, but I've had a few experiences similar to those you described - so I was smiling as I read of your travails. I spent 5 minutes once trying to figure out to flush a toilet at a restaurant - I finally found a button on the floor. We rented an apartment in Rome several years ago and we bathed in cold water the first morning because we couldn't figure out the hot water heater. But you know what - these are the things that become your fondest memories!
I love reading your weblog, dear Migrant, for just this kind of post. It's even dearer to me having just returned from my own travels to the United Kingdom. In twenty-three days, I never was comfortable with the money. I was so American, always handing the cashier the nearest 10 or 20 pound note. I did count out change once or twice, but was too chagrined to do it on the spot.
It sounds, though, like you are having an miraculous adventure. The best times I had during those twenty-three days abroad, were spent in places where I didn't have a map, and just went around. And you are going to be there in Paris for several months.
Whenever I talk now about my overseas adventures, I'm always quick to say that my friend the Food Migrant is kicking it so old school in France, living the dream.
What I want is a flickr page depicting the range of your experience. Make me feel it, FM! Make me feel it!
yours always,
Melvin
Ah... I just got back from a year in France, so I can totally relate to many of these points.
Just wanted to tell you about my experience using American credit cards there, because it CAN be done and this might help you out a bit. Just about every store that accepts a carte bancaire or Electron can also accept a Visa credit card, even if the shopkeeper doesn't realize it. I noticed that the tendency is for them to slide the credit card reeeeaaalllllyy sllloooowww, and then when it doesn't work they'll claim it doesn't work at all.
So I always told the shopkeeper, very politely, to try swiping the card assez vite (or, if necessary, très vite!). That generally solves the problem. Whatever you do, though, don't try to swipe the card yourself. This seems to be the highest offense imaginable, though I don't know why since everyone handles their own carte bancaire without being offensive.
I don't ask questions. I just offer solutions ;)
Hi Cathy - Yes, the hot water heater can be yet another hurdle. I have taken many a cold shower in my time ...and once I had the pleasure of showering under water that was a few degrees short of boiling (in Prague). My back looked sunburnt for days.
Melvin - your wish is my command. Check out new pics in my "Gallery" section on the right.
Nicole - thanks for the advice. That will be very useful, I think. I still cannot figure out why none of my cards ever seem to work in the Metro stations. Did you have that problem?
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