7. The Art of Getting Unstuck
On the road in France
Coucou y’all! It’s another sunny day here in Lyon. Now that I’ve put the finishing touches on this latest issue, I plan to head outdoors and find a shady cafe to pass the afternoon. (Aperol spritz, anyone?)1
If you’re new here (and there are a lot of you! Bienvenue!) have a look at some of the previous issues here, as idiomatic is linear. Of course, I write each newsletter with the intent of making it accessible to everyone, so you can totally start right here, right now.
Ready? C’est parti!
novembre, 2022
bordeaux, france
I appear to be stuck. Not in a spiritual crisis sort of way; nor down a dark hole sort of way—rather, I’m stuck in a Bordeaux parking garage. There’s been a rail strike, une grève, and I’ve decided to take a rideshare to my next destination. Unfortunately, the driver, a Spaniard named Antonio, neglected to collect a ticket upon entering the garage. Now he’s having an argument with the speaker box at the gate. The woman on the other end refuses to let us out.
Antonio’s been on the road for two days, picking up rideshares to cover the gas. I imagine him careening across the Pyrenees on a Kerouac-inspired adventure, speckled with eccentric characters appearing then disappearing from his life. Somewhere near Barcelona, a passenger made him more than an hour late picking me up. Given the ongoing drama with the speaker box, I suspect there were other factors at play. I have a fellow passenger, a blonde woman in the back, who doesn’t seem surprised by the turn of events.
Finally, Antonio acquiesces, parks the car and leaves us to find a ticket. At some point the engine dies.
Antonio is going to Orleans, where he’s studying for his Master’s at the university there. I’m going to Bourges, where my French teacher, Yann, has offered to put me up for the weekend. We’ve stayed in touch since meeting in Paris and have plans to explore the countryside near his home. If I ever get there.
When Antonio returns, ticket in hand, the engine makes a pathetic sound and fails to start. Another ten minutes pass as he alternates between kicking the brake and turning the ignition. The woman in the back sighs and rolls her eyes.
On the road, Antonio listens to a lot of AC/DC. It starts to rain. I wonder if a rideshare service like Blablacar would work in the United States. We’d have to get over the name. Even then, I have hard time imagining it would ever catch on. Too much distrust and fear. (What is it about a Spaniard singing “Highway to Hell,” speeding down the autoroute in a rickety van, that makes me feel practically safe?)
After a couple hours, I notice the fuel gauge is on R (European for E). This is concerning. Antonio doesn’t show signs of stopping for gas, so I say I need to pee hoping he’ll take the opportunity to fill up. He finds an out of the way service station, down a side road, far from the highway. Fortunately, he decides to fill the tank. Unfortunately, the car doesn’t start for another ten minutes.
We do reach Bourges eventually. The rain has cleared, revealing a smattering of stars overhead. Yann takes me on a late-night tour of the centre ville. The Cathédrale Saint-Étienne de Bourges is lit with accent lamps that cast slanted shadows across the gargoyles. Yann tells me that some of the gargoyles are actually butts.
“Butts?” I ask, wondering if this is some French term I don’t know.
“Asses.”
“Like donkeys?”
“No, butts, les fesses.” He explains that when the cathedral was being built, some of the stonemasons carved beautiful, decorative butts onto … the buttresses? … in protest over their wages. Now this is my kind of grève.
Sure enough, there’s an 800-year-old full moon above. I like Bourges, already.
From Bourges, I spend a month traveling from town to town. This time, I’m not on the road, but on trains. France unrolls like a film strip through the window: a glimpse of castle turrets in this frame; a hillside dotted with white cows in that; a block of grey social housing; a skyline of glass and steel. I go back to Paris to meet a friend; down to Montpellier to warm up in the sun; over to Lyon to see what life is like; up to Grenoble for the mountains; and finally, back to Paris in time for New Year’s Eve.
By now, I’ve got a mild cold—probably exhaustion more than anything else—so I sit by the window of my new apartment and watch the fireworks over Sacre Coeur. When the show is over, I close the curtains and say, “Bonne nuit, Paris.”
My time in France is coming to an end, with only one month until my return flight. They say it’s the sign of a good vacation when you’re ready to go home. That’s so not me. Not by far. In fact, I’ve begun to note a sense of dread seeping into each passing day like a mold in someone’s basement. It’s not that I don’t miss home—I’ve particularly been pining for my cat, Roxy—it’s more the dread of returning to the status quo.
You see, I’ve developed something of a habit. I like big adventures, undertakings that could serve as a turning point in my life. There was a 6-month work visa in Europe after college; later a 3,000km thru-hike in New Zealand; and not long afterward, my Master’s program in the UK. Each time, I had the opportunity to really leap into the unknown and keep going, but I opted for “real life,” whatever that is. I always went home.
I want to break that pattern, but I can’t see how. I’m stuck. It feels like I’m not being creative enough, courageous enough, confident enough. But there really are some inescapable adult responsibilities at home, not to mention I’ve nearly overstayed my 90-day welcome in Europe’s Schengen area. On the tarmac at Charles De Gaulle, waiting for takeoff, I finish the last page of my journal, setting an intention to “return to France for a life I’m excited about.”
mai, 2024
lyon, france
The Roman amphitheater near my apartment has been decorated with cheerful pink and blue banners. Two thousand years ago it was an event space for gladiator fights, now it’s a community theatre for local bands and acting groups. The tech booth comprises two stacked cargo containers and the backstage is a yurt-like tent. There are a handful of vintage camper trailers serving some purpose and at night the whole arena has the air of a theatre troupe encampment.
I’ve walked past L'amphithéâtre des Trois Gaules almost every day for eight months, but today it feels fresh and foreign. As if I’m seeing it for the first time. Everything does. The narrow cobblestone streets near Place Sathonay where anarchists frequently tag the sculpture of a military sergeant. The trendy cyclist shop/coffee bar where I sometimes work and lust after the €4,000 gravel bikes. The artisan boulangerie that pumps the smell of hot bread into the street.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe. Or like I’ve skipped train tracks and am en route to some unknown destination. I’ve just returned home from a short trip to the United States. Let me say that again. I’ve returned home to Lyon. I walk about the city—running errands, grocery shopping, doing completely mundane activities—in a slightly bewildered state. I can’t quite believe that I’m here.
For the first time since arriving in France last year, it really hits me: the vacation’s over. I’ve come home.
Merci for reading! As always, I’d love to hear your reactions in the comments section below. Have you had a travel experience that’s changed the direction of your life? Or maybe you’re planning that trip now? Perhaps you have a trick for getting unstuck? Introduce yourself and share your story!
Until next time, bon week-end!
Just kidding, one last thing. Have you considered sharing idiomatic with a friend? It’d be cool if you did.
Honestly, it’s so dang hot, I might just go to the only air-conditioned place I can think of: the gym. Followed by a recovery spritz.
I don't know Lyon, but I do know the feeling of being strangely at home in a foreign place. Enjoy!
"For the first time since arriving in France last year, it really hits me: the vacation’s over. I’ve come home."... That happened to me after eight months in our new home in Portugal.