Adventures Across the Pond
By Tatum Forbes
What was I thinking?
The question rattled around my mind as I peered from the window. As far as my eyes could see, there was nothing but ocean waves crashing below me.
Cold tendrils of fear snaked their way up my spine. Nothing and I do mean nothing, will press upon you the insignificance of human life like hurtling across the sky 30,000 feet over the Atlantic. Pulling the shade closed, I reminded myself why I embarked upon this adventure in the first place.
The truth is that no one prepares you for your quarter-life crisis. Instead of taking precautions to minimize the toll this stage of life will bring, we are shuffled from grade school into college and then on to the workforce. All the while I was being chastised by elders to stop whining and work harder. I felt that I would have more time. The next thing I knew, I was at the halfway point of my 20s with all the details of my life still in disarray.
I had a job but no career. I was dating but hadn’t found anyone I would want to be my husband. I was the proud pet parent but the idea of children twisted my insides with dread. I was just another millennial adrift between the pillars of what society had once clearly defined as adulthood. At the time, I didn’t know what else to do, so, like any rational person, I packed my things and ran.
Spain.
Walking into the terminal, the distinct smell of tobacco greeted me. To my shock, people sat, smoking freely without a care in the world. All of this was impossible now in the States. That was just the first of the many culture shocks to come. Beyond the doors of the airport, my sister Tyler, her friend Erica and her boyfriend, awaited, ready to shuttle me toward the unknown. Before we could leave the curb, the second culture shock presented itself – the cars in Europe make our compact cars seem like SUVs. Al, the boyfriend, wrestled my overpacked suitcase into the tiny hatchback with purpose. I jumped into the backseat next to Erica, and we were off, weaving through the streets of Madrid. From the backseat, I struggled to make sense of Tyler’s Spanglish and Al’s broken English. Suddenly, the car came to a screeching stop at an intersection, and they began gathering up belongings and throwing open the car doors. Al swiftly grabbed our bags from the trunk and deposited them on the sidewalk. As gingerly as I could, I crawled from the cramped car. Al kissed my sister goodbye, wished us a good time and sped off. Incredulous, I turned to my sister in disbelief.
“Now what?” I asked.
She explained to me that we had to walk to the hostel.
Jet-lagged, the cobblestone streets went on forever, and after a while, we arrived at the massive gated door of Mad Hostel.
At check-in, we received tickets for that night’s event. Bags deposited in our room; we headed out to explore the mysteries of Madrid.
It was later that night when I saw the light. For the first time in a long time, I was having fun. I was finally doing something that wasn’t school, work or relationship related.
We arrived at Catz hostel a little after the celebrations began. The sangria and shots flowed freely – literally for free. People from all over the world had gathered to enjoy themselves. After the crowd was sufficiently drunk, the tour guides steered us down the narrow streets of the city from one bar to the next. In the group, I chatted with someone from England, Poland and the Basque region of Spain. The only thing that mattered to me was taking delight in what life was offering me in those moments.
Every bar after the first was a blur. In one of those bars, a handsome man from Colombia taught me how to bachata.
It was official: my comfort zone was somewhere back in Texas. My first night in Europe set the tone for the rest of the trip. The next day I attempted to be a tourist. Visiting the ruins of the Moorish empire had been a high priority, but my hangover would not relent. I settled for joining a walking tour, that did take me past at least one relic from when Muslim kings ruled Spain.
On the final night, my sister’s friend from Andalusia joined us for dinner. In the kitchen of the hostel, they prepared an egg and potato dish known as tortilla. While they cooked, I read tarot for an incredibly sexy Croatian man and indulged in more wine.
During dinner, some decided that we should pub crawl – again. I considered being responsible and going upstairs to pack, but the city was calling. Caution thrown from the window, we headed into the night.
Packing drunk at 2 a.m. is an extreme sport. By some miracle, we made it to the airport on time for our red eye flight.
Paris.
The first day in Paris was a struggle.
From the plane, I took a bus, and from the bus, took the subway. The faint smell of piss and cigarettes lingered over the city. It wasn’t as glamorous as I had always imagined.
My hangover was still going strong, and the lack of sleep started to catch up to me. The only thing I wanted to do was get to my bunk bed and close my eyes. Around this time, I realized I had fucked up trying to make a whirlwind trip across Europe. I wondered to myself, how long would my energy last?
Our home for the next four days was the St. Christopher’s hostel on the Seine river.
It was attached to an American-style bar – Belushi’s. A bore for me, but the locals loved it.
At breakfast the next morning, one of these locals approached our small party. He successfully annoyed my sister and me, although she was the only one who spoke French. It turns out he was eager to meet American women because apparently, girls from the States like to fuck the locals. Revolted, we ran from the table as if we were chased. From the moment we stepped outside our hostel until the moment we left, it rained in Paris. When the rain did let up, we drank wine by the canal and enjoyed a lunch of escargot. With time slipping away from us, we had to pick something to do. Our choice was to visit the Palace of Versailles, The Louvre or the ancient Catacombs. In the end, Versailles won. Seeing the opulence of the palace made me understand why the French had their revolution.
That afternoon upon our return to St. Christopher’s, I noticed an attractive stranger smoking by the door. He was the hottest thing I’d seen since I touched down in Europe. I headed inside to the bar to have dinner. After miles of walking through Versailles, I just wanted to sit down to eat. We chose a table in the farthest corner of the bar and settled in. After the incident that morning, I preferred not to have strangers approaching our table. What started as dinner turned into a five-hour affair. Somewhere between the second and third bottle, I realized I was having fun. Then I realized I was out of fries. Our waiter had disappeared over half an hour ago behind the bar. I stumbled my way over to the bar, leaning against it as I awaited a bartender to approach. Standing before me was the handsome stranger from earlier. Now face-to-face, my throat had gone dry, and my words were misplaced somewhere in the mire of my inebriated mind.
He was slightly taller than me. His black hair was long, thick and swept away from his face. The color of his eyes was indiscernible in the dim lights of the bar, but they looked almost gold. I was shaking myself from falling in lust and remembered my mission to get fries.
Voice deep and thick with an Australian accent he explained that the kitchen was closed for the night. I must have looked heartbroken. He turned away from the bar for a second, and came back with a plate of fries which he set between down between us. Eyes wide, I looked up at him. Glancing over my shoulder to my table, I sat down at the bar to share the plate of fries with this handsome stranger.
Our flight was the next afternoon so I never did get to find out what could have been with the hot bartender.
There I was in Paris, having the time of my life. I couldn’t believe that I had bought the ticket and took the ride. In those moments I knew that nothing would be the same when I returned home. I had come to realize I put off many things in my life due to fear, but I vowed from then on to go after everything I thought I wanted.