As an introvert, I felt deeply uncomfortable for the first week in Paris. I arrived in an introverted state of mind, desiring solitude, and a chance to sit down and work and think quietly, perhaps in some nice green spaces. Paris laughed at that.
Any time of day or night when I went outside, I saw throngs of people walking around and sitting at tables conversing with each other. Every night, even at the grand hour of 3:00am, the river near my apartment was thickly lined with people, most of them young, some of them eating food, some sitting on chairs or couches hauled to the edge of the street, all of them talking. The crowds waxed and waned, but they never, ever went away.
It was constant and eternal, the conversation. I was not used to the physical closeness of the seated crowds. The equivalent closeness back home would be at a ballgame, or a concert, or some other collective activity. We were packed close, and if you weren’t talking, you were the odd one out. Almost no one sat alone.
Back home I could enter a coffee shop with plenty of space to sit down, and be completely undisturbed as I sat among other people, most of them working on things or reading quietly, with the occasional conversation happening in between. I would have room to spread out papers, or a laptop next to a plate. Often there would be music filling out the atmosphere. I found almost no recorded music playing in Paris. Because, why bother? The talking would just drown it out. It was like the busiest part of a thriving downtown, reproduced around itself, spiraling outward to the size of an entire city. There was no place you could go, outdoors or in, aside from your own home, that wasn’t in line of sight from at least one other person, and usually a crowd.
I don’t know whether my initial discomfort with this was because I am an introvert most of the time, or because I couldn’t speak very much French, and felt isolated due to that. But one thing that only occurred to me in retrospect is that I was witnessing a version of urban life imbued with so much energy that it actually squeezed out the presence of the smartphone, and the internet in general. There was so much audible conversation vibrating in the air that the wireless signals now permeating everything were superfluous. I’m certain the people here have cell phones in just the same quantity as any other modern city, but I saw them far less than back home. When people sat down at a table, they conversed with the person across from them, and almost never pulled out their phone, except perhaps to check something germane to the conversation. Why be concerned about information and dialogue happening miles away when there is so much directly in front of your face, pushing into your ears?
This is about an hour of waiting in line for a few scoops of ice cream. I’m sure it’s tasty but, I’m going to go with a different vendor, thanks…
I arrived here by train, and I imagine almost all the other tourists either did the same or arrived by the airport, which means the impression we’re building of France is confined to this city. The rest of France, and French people in general, could be wildly different. I get that. But I can say this about Paris: Nowhere else have I seen such a combination of narrow streets, packed bars, tiny tables decorated with “no laptop” signs, public parks so covered in people that the green of the grass is drowned out by the colors of clothing and skin and food, self-assured pedestrians striding out into traffic, bicycles and scooters barreling through narrow corridors cut into throngs of people, and gawking tourists with sunburns and sore feet. I’ve seen this stuff in other European cities, including large ones like London and Copenhagen, and bicycle-mad places like Amsterdam, but not to this manic degree. Not to the point where it feels like an expression of something fundamentally different beneath. The city feels ripped out of modern time, existing in a space where things invented this century are treated as a suspicious, uncool intrusions. Especially things that create metaphysical distance between people, like the smartphone.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. But I imagine someone living in Paris would find practically every other city in the western world to be lonely by comparison. Even though there is a language barrier for me, the press of constant dialogue and the sense of being insulated from all of the change and chaos of the outside world by the buffering chaos of the city itself is weirdly reassuring, as though I’m experiencing a unique synthesis of being anonymous in a crowd while also being intimately close to everyone here with me.
There’s a beautiful little park here, somewhere, under all these people.
On the other hand, how intimate is it, really? Americans are known for being very gregarious in public encounters, even with strangers, telling them all kinds of personal details about their lives, to the point where many foreigners feel like their privacy is being grossly invaded during the average subway ride or transaction at a supermarket. And I suspect that reaction would be the same even for a Parisian wandering around New York. I think they would feel hesitant, and the funny, scrappy, slightly pugilistic dialogue that’s been the baseline of my random exchanges in New York or Chicago would probably feel uncomfortably aggressive to them.
And if you took a million Americans and crammed them together in a city as close as Paris, would we all sit alone at tiny tables on the street hunched over our cell phones, too afraid – or too overworked – to talk to one another in this way? Or would we would blossom into our own American kind of dialogue?
Actually I suspect most of us would immediately feel hemmed in by the lack of space to pursue hobbies and keep equipment. I mean, hell, I occupy a lot less space than the average American my age, but even I have five bicycles and a heap of touring hardware, which I keep crammed in a garage.
When Ann was planning her portion of this trip, she said, “I’ve done plenty of London and Berlin, and it feels like enough. But I could always do more Paris.” Now I understand why.
I came here on a bike loaded for wilderness-level touring. I couldn’t help it, because that’s the load-out I used in Iceland and the bike has been stored in a basement, untouched, since the Iceland tour finished almost two years ago. When I got here – to a rented apartment on Rue de la Fontaine au Roi – I stripped all the bags and gear off the bike and threw them in a closet, and have been going around with nothing but a phone, some Airpods, a house key, and a very sturdy bike lock.
Tried this cafe a second time, but the mocha was no better.
Tried this cafe a second time, but the mocha was no better.
Parisians seem to love the recumbent. Of the thousands of bicycles I’ve seen so far in the city, I haven’t seen a single recumbent, so it gets a lot of commentary. I understand why it would be rare: Paris has turned out to be what I would call an “expert level” place for bicycling, much more so than any other giant city I’ve been to in Europe, and you need to be very good on a recumbent to avoid injury in a place like this. Relatively speaking, Amsterdam, Brussels, Hamburg, Copenhagen, and London are all easier.
Back in the US, I’d say New York is relatively easy, and so is most of Boston and Chicago. In terms of danger I’d say that Paris is not top of the list – downtown LA occupies that spot for me so far – but it’s a strong second place. It’s not fear of deliberate violence I’m talking about, but the risk of accident, from the sheer press of people and the contempt they show for the rules. And it bears repeating: This is Europe. I have yet to experience bicycle touring in, for example, Rio de Janeiro or Bangkok. I’m sure Paris would be way down the list by then.
The weather is perfect, but the air quality is pretty bad. I’ve noticed that smog laws in Paris are treated as suggestions, especially by people on ancient scooters and mopeds. While biking around I’ve encountered entire city blocks that stink of car exhaust to the point of making me feel physically ill.
And I’ve gone to believe that the French take a dim view of laws and government in general, which I suppose is great where personal freedom is involved but is also a barrier to organization and urban planning, even daily logistics:
Will a shop respect its own posted hours? Maybe. Will you get warning when a street is closed for construction? Maybe. Will the bus actually stop where the schedule says? Maybe. Will the postman deliver your package? Maybe. Will there be a bike lane? Maybe. Will it be on the left, right, or middle or the street? Take a wild guess! Will there be a delivery truck parked right on top of it? Maybe. Will the train be on time? Maybe. What platform will it arrive on? Nobody knows until 20 minutes before it’s due to leave, ever, even if that train line has been operating for years, and even then it may be wrong.
Every intersection is a free-for-all hash of bicycles, people, cars, and scooters. Crosswalks are a suggestion. Crosswalk signals are less than a suggestion; they are ignored. On the other hand, people almost never honk their horns regardless of the thickness of the snarl or who is technically at fault, because the response they are most likely to get is, “screw you, this is France.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. What sort of organization would I expect, from a nation whose most truly defining era is still the French Revolution? Where laws, for the vast majority of its history, were used to funnel wealth upwards first – into the laps of clergy and kings – and organize people second? The nation I come from owes an incalculable debt to the same thinkers and activists that drove the French Revolution, and the influence shows, but I get the impression that the French had to swing a lot harder to knock their tyrants off their posts, and that impact is still echoing around in the culture here.
That’s a cerebral place to go, starting from a description of the air and the traffic… No doubt it’s subjective and I’ll have other impressions as the days continue.
Today I sat in the restaurant where Amelie was filmed, and listened to music and a series of podcasts about Russia, and then a book about French history.
It was well weird comparing the current and former state of both countries, and asking the question that’s on a lot of minds this year: Can Russia ever change away from fascism and still remain Russia?
One of the people I listened to was Mikhail Shishkin, speaking as a guest on an Intelligence Squared podcast episode, titled “Is Russia Doomed By Its History?” He made a very sobering point: People who live in a fascist state, and do not oppose it, do not see themselves as fascists, and when their state attempts to bring fascism to a neighboring state through subjugation (e.g. war) they see themselves as liberators, rather than conquerors or subjugators. Since fascism is what they know and believe in, inter-state conflicts are not a matter of freedom versus subjugation, but a matter of a big fish eating a smaller fish. It’s kill or be killed in a zero-sum game, because there couldn’t possibly be a form of governance they could switch to that would move them even a little bit out from under the bootheel of the criminals at the top.
Want to escape from that restaurant in Amelie? Here’s how.
Besides, if you live in fear of your ruling party, then what better way to distract them from plundering you than encouraging them to plunder someone else?
Just so with the Russian people, over the last 100 years, inside and outside the USSR.
Anyway, I ate two lunches at the cafe, since I’d skipped breakfast and intended to skip dinner: A caesar salad with ham, and a rich avocado toast with salmon on top. As one should on a proper vacation, I ate slowly!
Lots of people came in to take photos of the place, giggle a bit, and then dash right out again. So to be a contrarian, I left without taking a photo of the interior. If it ever came up, I could certainly remember that I’d dined in the restaurant used in the film. I wouldn’t go scrambling for photographic proof of it and no one would ask. What, would they accuse me of being a liar? Maybe when I was 16 years old and boasting in a schoolyard. Not now. At the same time, that photo isn’t something I’d put on my wall or even in a screensaver. Most of my keepsakes are either highly portable digital items, or living things walking around looking after each other.
I followed this train of thought as I rode the bike over to the Cimetière de Montmartre. Alas, it was closed for the day…
Hmm, Montmartre cemetery closes at 6pm. Good to know. I’ll have to come back later…
I still remember the time when film was expensive and photographs were prized artifacts from an otherwise obscure and unseen era. That’s so thoroughly not the case now. And now we’re making our way into a realm where photographic evidence is no longer evidence of anything in particular, given that you can ask a computer to bake you an image of yourself doing whatever you can describe, in any place you can name. So what is the point of taking a photo when you do go there?
Maybe now you can start to relax and just be. You can even take the photo retroactively if the need arises.
It seems like a matter of time before we’re all wearing gadgets that take – or gather – photos of us everywhere by default. I’m imagining high-quality cameras all over the place that are not just used for city surveillance by the police, but made available to our phones (or whatever the gadget is), so when we want – if we want – we can just gather up dozens of photos of ourselves taken by these devices and aggregate them. You can imagine a camera on a stick planted in front of every scenic vista, constantly recording. People will embrace the implied total surveillance because of the convenience of sending a “selfie” to their friends and social media without even needing to reach into a pocket.
Roll that forward two or three decades, and we will not be carrying anything around at all, yet still able to gather photos of ourselves afterwards, interact with our personal digital worlds by talking to lampposts (since our voice and face is our password), pay with our fingerprint or our face, access transcripts of everything we’ve said, and so on. People will embrace total surveillance and recording because it will be fun. They’ll get to buy into it. And the old saying, “if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear” will sound so very reasonable… That’s what they said in the USSR, as they dumped radioactive waste straight into the river…
I loathe this future.
The opportunities for exploitation will be practically infinite, and practically invisible. And as I get up and walk out into the seething crowd of tourists on this street, I’m asking myself a really frightening question:
At what point does a state become so exploitative – and skilled at crushing dissent through social manipulation and surveillance – that the people trapped permanently at the bottom of it have no other choice but to take up arms and start physically smashing the apparatus? Are we heading towards a level of lock-in through technological advancement so high that the ONLY way out is to beat down doors and set fire to mansions? Are we headed for another French Revolution, but on a global scale, with the attendant scale of death and chaos?
Huh. So that’s where it is. No desire to go inside currently, but, good to know.
Huh. So that’s where it is. No desire to go inside currently, but, good to know.
‘Cause you know, at some point, the food’s going to get too expensive even with fertilizer, and the water is going to get too expensive to clean, and the digital apparatus is going to be tightened and tweaked so that the wealthy keep eating, while the rabble drowns in poison.
I heard Nick leaving in the middle of the night, to catch his flight down to Portugal. The bike would be staying here until our paths crossed again in a few weeks for the journey to Edinburgh.
I fell back asleep and brought my total to 7 hours. Not bad. When I sat up and realized the sink and bathroom were up two sets of stairs, I decided I would sleep in the little upstairs room for the rest of my stay. I didn’t need all this mattress.
I took my first shower, and discovered that the bathtub was made of plastic and not anchored to the floor, so it tipped alarmingly when I reached for a towel. The curtain didn’t go all the way around, so the floor got wet. That was fine because the floor was a shower stall: The drain of the bathtub went into a hose, which went into a shower drain in the corner.
Why does this AirBnB have so many plants to take care of?
A plastic tub shoved into the shower stall. Classy.
It was pretty funny. I’d been in some really janky places all over America, and yet I’d never used a setup this janky. Even the bare cement showers in RV parks usually compensated for their brutalist vibe by being spacious. It was a fact I would be learning repeatedly: Physical space is clearly the most expensive commodity in Paris.
I also noticed a sign by the dishwasher that I’d never seen before, even in the most uptight AirBnB units of Iceland or New Zealand:
Why leave high-maintenance silverware in a flat you’re renting out to people on a daily basis? This makes no sense.
Why leave high-maintenance silverware in a flat you’re renting out to people on a daily basis? This makes no sense.
This little apartment generates something like five grand a month for these people. What do they care if the silverware gets tarnished? Shouldn’t grandma’s fine utensils be somewhere else?
I shrugged. It’s not like I would be doing any cooking in this place more elaborate than heating up bread. Time to go see the city!
I rode directly down to Ten Belles, since it was on my “must try” list, but it was exploding with people. There was one tiny free table and a long line out the door. I picked streets at random and wound up near the canal again. On the other side was a cafe named “Residence Kann” that looked interesting, and not too crowded. They advertised a “mochacchino,” which turned out to be a lot like the mocha from Bluebottle back home. Very foamy and smooth, but with enough chocolate to make it a “real” mocha.
I decided I would eat at a different cafe at least once every day, and always order a mocha or the closest equivalent, so I could rank them all against my very severe and subjective 1 to 10 Worldwide Mocha Ranking Scale. “Residence Kann” got a respectable 7.5! They also served avocado toast, which is catnip to us middle-class wankers, so I got some.
This was the first place where I saw little signs on the tables indicating “no laptops”. I hadn’t seen any Parisians with laptops anywhere yet, so perhaps this was a city-wide custom and the signs are for the crude tourists (like me) to get a clue.
Computers are TOLERATED for a certain time. Otherwise, we Parisians hate you remote-working yahoos. Get out!
I wondered if it’s also considered insulting to the waitstaff to be sitting there doing the thing that makes you a much higher wage than they do, while they bring you food and wipe up your crumbs. But surely being a waiter in Paris earns a good wage?
Also, I wondered if a similar anti-laptop rebellion was coming to San Francisco and New York… If it wasn’t rolling in already. Back home I wasn’t seeing “no laptop” signs directly on tables yet, though I was seeing polite signs on walls asking that people limit their computer time to an hour or so. Maybe the Bay Area is too aware that people on laptops account for at least half the money being made there, and no one wants to upset them…?
Well, the cafe is nice even if they don’t like laptop users.
Well, the cafe is nice even if they don’t like laptop users.
I sipped my drink and felt fancy, and tried to conjure up a first impression of Paris, or at least this region of it. It was far more cramped and busy than I was expecting. The press of people was constant, and could easily get overwhelming. The importance of open spaces like the canals and gardens felt very clear to me.
I remembered reading somewhere that people often experience a kind of emotional shock, some time in the first few days, when they realize that the Paris they’re walking around is extremely different from the Paris they imagined. A depression sets in; what one might even call … ennui, and it lingers until they surrender, and adapt to the city on its own terms. Perhaps I was due for that kind of emotional journey in a few days.
I did a little reading, and learned some statistics:
2 million people live in the city of Paris. Somewhere between 7 and 13 million people live in the “metropolitan area” of Paris, depending on how you slice it. 68 million people live in all of France. So, as much as one fifth of all French people live in or around Paris. That’s a massively influential city.
For comparison: 8.5 million people live in the city of New York, while the entire state of New York has 20 million people in it. So if you’re “a New Yorker”, one third of the time that means you’re living in the city itself. This assumption by outsiders is so strong that people have to say they’re from “New York state”, just to make it clear that they’re not living in the city. Along the same lines, it would be plausible to change the name of Paris to “France City,” because when travelers think of France, they think of Paris. Meanwhile, four fifths of French people would have to start pointing out that they’re from “France THE COUNTRY, you dang tourist! Don’t lump me in with those urban jerks!”
I’m sure they would love that…
What’s intriguing to me is that, bustling as it is, Paris used to be much more populated, until the mid-20th-century when huge amounts of people migrated outward due to enhancements in rail and auto travel, and created massive suburbs. Only in the tail end of the 20th century has the population begun to move inward again.
I took a scroll through the history of Paris, and found an epic of war and revolution going back many hundreds of years, casting a long shadow, even over the World Wars. It was one bloody synthesis of king and church after another for 800 years until the French Revolution, then a bloody sequel in the form of the Napoleonic empire, then a confusing run of coup d’états and collapsed governments, with modern reforms and counter-reforms beginning some time after World War II and continuing through the century.
Thinking about this, and based on what I was seeing Parisians do around me just with regard to things like crosswalks, public gatherings, demonstrations, and trespassing, I concluded that the French must have a strong sense of independence from their government, and the laws and order it tries to impose. It’s truly an inspiration for the American attitude that if a law does not promote the common good, the law should be changed. Or in the case of Parisians, the law should be ignored, because the whole damn government is suspect, and may be collapsing some time in the near future anyway.
While I was musing over this, I had an interesting side-thought: Many of my fellow Americans have a strong aversion to talking about “politics” in public, or even in private when they’re not among friends. I suddenly had two questions about that. First: Why this aversion? And second: What does it even mean, to separate “politics” as a subject out from everything else?
As I packed up my stuff in the cafe and headed for my bike and another random ride around the city, I tried to conjure a few answers.
I figured that Americans try to avoid “politics” because it can cause friction among people who would otherwise just get along with the business of economic exchange, and relating to each other in their immediate context, e.g. at a baseball game or while standing in line at a supermarket. And Americans want to get business done, because they want to survive.
Put another way: There’s a subconscious feeling that peaceful coexistence with neighbors who disagree with you is more important than agreeing on how your government should be run, because you and your neighbor are right here face-to-face, and the government is way over there, potentially in another state, potentially thousands of miles away. This feeling might actually be the reason America still exists as a single country at this point. But what is this “politics” that people are so averse to discussing? My take was, it seems to be something encompassed by “policy” but actually more specific: “Politics” to the American seems to be about the people in government, and the political parties they belong to, and what those people and parties are like, or what they endorse.
For example, the regulation of America’s border with Mexico is certainly a political subject, and people will discuss that – cautiously – while considering details like our shared sense of responsibility to take in refugees, our collective status as a nation of migrants, our desire for respect of the rule of law, and our desire to prevent human trafficking and the movement of narcotics. But, statements like “The Democrats want lawless chaos instead of a border!” or “The Republicans want to separate migrant babies from parents!” … That’s what we call “politics.”
There are a lot of Americans talking “politics” online, on television, on radio… But there are also a lot more Americans who find it aggravating and would rather talk policy. Sadly, those discussions don’t drive mouse-clicks, finger-pokes, and ad revenue dollars, so it’s easy to get confused about whether they exist at all. At the same time, a lot of Americans have the luxury of not engaging with politics – or even policy – at all, because they do not belong to one of the sub-groups that the law is currently victimizing in some way. E.g. migrants, users of illegal drugs, pregnant women looking for medical care, people with non-Christian religious practices, and so on. So from one perspective, these people create stability, which is great … but from another, they create complacency, which is infuriating … and they need to be reached and told what their tax dollars are doing to other people.
Well, that was my quick packing-the-bike take on it, anyway. Next stop: Caféinoman, for a “detox juice blend” and a muffin. (I couldn’t handle any more coffee.) They were both pretty good!
Looking around, I got the sense that most of the dozen-or-so people in the cafe were fellow tourists. I wondered if I would ever get a clear picture of what Parisians are like, separate from tourists. Probably not.
Next I decided to check out “Jules Verne Park,” which sounded cool. I dropped my muffin in the street as I was riding along. Dangit! Well, food for the rats I guess.
“Jules Verne Park” turned out to be a kid’s play park, packed full tiny humans and larger humans chasing them, or sitting around looking exhausted. Not what I was hoping for. The noise made me crave a quiet space, so I rode back to the apartment, and used the remaining hour before my first work meeting to sort photos.
Three hours later my work meetings were done and I’d written everything useful into a page of notes, so I walked around the corner to the cafe Nick and I had gone to, and ordered their all-day brunch. I chatted with folks on the phone and did more snacking – what a life I lead! – then strolled to the apartment and pitched myself into the upstairs bed. My brain was full of French history, computer code, and the roar of a thousand conversations that had pressed in around me all day.
Would this be the Paris routine for me? Cafes, history, parks, work, and bicycling? If so, I’ll take it!
I packed up my stuff relatively quickly, though I had to unroll the tent again because I accidentally wrapped my headphones and GPS tracker inside it. Nick had commandeered one of my folding chairs and was browsing memes while slowly waking up. He looked so comfortable I decided I would leave him be and go take a shower.
Oh boy, shower time… Looks a bit grody… Here we go.
I wheeled the bike over to the restaurant just in case, but it was closed. The shower was alarmingly grody, so I changed out of my clothes while standing in my biking sandals and showered with them on. Still way better than no shower at all!
Not bad for an all-you-can-eat ten dollar breakfast.
Just as we were starting to chomp, Nick realized he’d forgotten his battery back at the campsite, so I spent some time at looking at train schedules and moving photos around.
After that we rode along the riverbank, absorbing the pleasant air and sun.
A few hours later we stopped for drinks at a roadside restaurant, just because we could. I got hot chocolate and he got a coffee drink.
We talked a lot about urban planning, about the paranoia his parents had about strangers and getting lost that was imposed on them by the suburban life, about how different it was when I was a kid. We tried to think of ways we could adapt urban environments, so they were better for families, and turned people away from the madness of car-based environments.
We pedaled on, drifting apart and then back again. Soon we threaded into Koblenz, large town sitting at the juncture of the Moselle and Rhine rivers, and stopped in a plaza. There we found a tall monument depicting the history of the region.
Contemplating such a massive span of time, and scraps of earlier conversations, Nick sat down to work through some things in his head. I walked around and gazed at the people and ate a snack.
From there we squiggled a bit farther north and found some other interesting sculpture, eventually reaching a park right at the confluence of the rivers, with an enormous statue of Kaiser Wilhelm overlooking the slowly churning water.
It was a nice day for lingering, but we did have more ground to cover. We rode west, following the Moselle. Going was very, very slightly tougher because now we were headed upriver instead of down.
We stopped at a greek cafe up a hill, next to a train station. I got gyros and wolfed them down, and Nick got some tortellini which he ate at a more sensible pace. I planned a train ride for tomorrow to make up for lost time.
How do you make amends, as a government or a nation, for an act of murder that was so complete that there is no family, even extended family, left to return stolen property to? When they’re dead, and the people who killed them are dead, and the officials and the lawmakers who were “just following orders” are dead by firing squad or rotting in prison, and your bombed-out, ruined country is now one enormous crime scene, how do you set it right?
I don’t know. These little bricks are obviously no compensation. I’ve done a fair amount of reading about what happened on the path to World War II and how it played out, but not much on what the Germans did afterward…
I made a note to do that, then dragged my mind back to the present, and the fine weather. The steep vineyards along the river were ridiculously pretty.
As I passed through a quiet intersection I hears a kid’s voice coming from a side yard. He said “Alahoo Akbar, reep reep, Alahoo Ahhkbarr,” and made a bunch of snorting noises like a pig. I was confused, then suddenly realized he was saying this at me, because he saw I was wearing a bandana, and decided that it must be some kind of keffiyeh under my bike helmet, and was mocking me with a religious phrase he connected to them.
I felt quite incredibly offended on behalf of everyone in the Middle East, and turned the bike around slowly, and rolled back by the yard. The kid who’d made the noises was still muttering nonsense to himself and kicking a soccer ball against the gate. I didn’t say anything, but grinned rather intensely at him, and when he saw me he jerked back, then stiffly gathered his ball and about-faced to walk to his friend at the far end of the yard. If I’d had more forethought I would have said something sarcastic to him in English. Hopefully I at least surprised some caution into the little shithead.
The incident was unsettling, and made me very thoughtful about the degree to which I was able to assume that the people around me in this foreign country meant me no harm. I mean, I’d known going in that I already looked very German, so as long as I didn’t open my mouth I could blend in; to the degree that a dude riding a recumbent festooned with too many bags could blend in anywhere. It honestly never occurred to me that they might also assume I was Middle Eastern because of my freaking bandana, which is, okay, an exceptionally thick white cotton cloth with an elaborate pattern on it in bright red ink, but generally smaller than any keffiyeh. Were Germans looking at me with some suspicion because of that? Was the shitty rambling of this little kid just an overt sign of an internal bigotry churning below the surface of the adult minds all around me?
I passed out of the town and down a steep hill, then zig-zagged to the campsite. The woman at the booth spoke broken English and was very friendly, though I also detected a strange note of nervousness in her demeanor, and I couldn’t help thinking it was the bandana again. It probably wasn’t. But the sense of discontent lingered with me.
I looked for Nick on my map and saw that he’d blown past the campsite. I called him and told him to read his texts, which he did. He turned right around. “Dang, I was just cruising along, feeling good. I could have gone a bunch more miles today I think.”
I ordered a giant glass of ice with tapwater in it, and they brought it to me, plus a refill. For that I was charged six dollars. Nick hemmed and hawed over the menu and eventually chose a rhubarb soda, which tasted a bit like a carbonated sports drink but came in a very nice tall glass.
We chatted about cultural differences, and the presence of so much designer label clothing around us. Nick pointed out that it was very expensive to get a drivers license in Germany. I opined that it was typical of Europe to make rules designed specifically to shut out the lower classes, as if they weren’t allowed to exist. I came to Germany expecting to find everything either the same as or better than the United States. Better land, better customs, better laws… Instead I’m finding that it’s a mixed bag, and some of the stuff they do seems outright crazy. I thought crazy was a mode that belonged only to Americans.
We found an open patch and set up our tents, then I bought more laundry tokens in the restaurant.
Two 7-minute showers and two washing machine runs.
We loaded laundry into two machines. Then we sat around organizing the campsite for a bit, then just reading our devices. One of the dryers ate two of my coins, so we consolidated.
By the time our laundry was done it was fully night, and we snuggled in, listening to the occasional bird calls from the swampy inlet on the far side of our little peninsula. It felt a bit like summer camp. Tomorrow we would wake up and go climbing around on ropes, and decorate pinecones to look like Mr. Potato Head, then have a sing-along around the fire.
