You learn a lot about someone when you spend two weeks living, cooking and sleeping, in a 2003 Volkswagen T4 with them. You learn even more about yourself.
France
The late August sun turned gravel to glitter, as beneath us the wheels of the van hummed away. We had no plan, just a list of countries in my notes app and thirst for adventure. A thirst as deep as the Channel we had crossed. Our first stop on our way to Lille was in Bergues. The name derives from the Dutch groene berg, which means “green hill.” I could see that fictitious green rolling hill in my mind as we passed the real ones dotted through the norther French countryside. In my imagination, we would run all the way up to its apex. We’d drop to our knees and tumble down, dizzy with laughter and inspecting the grass stains on our jeans. We could run as far as we wanted. But really what I needed in Bergues was to find a bloody bathroom.
But really what I needed in Bergues was to find a bloody bathroom.
“The costume fancy dress shop might have one.”
I looked at him doubtfully but placed my bets. They did not have a bathroom. They did, however, have three aisles worth of handcuffs, leather sexy nurse costumes, and rubber penises. If I hadn’t stifled my laughing at the totally unethical size of the toys they were selling, I may well have wet myself on their floor in spite of their lack of facilities.
“Oh, we’re in Europe now, baby.”
I don’t remember much from Lille. It couldn’t have been as exciting as the costume shop or the absence of a toilet. Sharing a tuna sandwich on a weathered wooden bench in the town square and buying a pack of Vogues in the tobacco shop was a close second, though.
Belgium
Jabekke – a quirky road sign at the exit to the motorway. What a funny sounding place. Almost like a Lego village in the way all the houses were aligned. Sterile and boxy. As if the concrete was still too fresh for you to walk up any of the driveways. We took the bus into Bruges. Looking out the window as countryside green turned to village, as village turned to markets.
The evening was hazy; mosquitos danced in and out of the van. As we ate, so did they. Everyone was fed – mind, body, and soul. Reds and pinks doused the sky, as we filled our plastic cups with wine. There were quiet moments as we laboured over a 1000-piece puzzle. Realizing that it would not survive our journey to our next stop and that it would take at least two days to complete, which…, well, definitely not with the way he drives. That’s when I see just how different we are even when sharing a space. He builds directly into the puzzle. A slow dedicated process to watch the picture materialize piece by piece. I retreat from the magnitude of it all. From the impossible enormity of the pile in front of me. I collect the pieces in my own smaller picture.
And the Cabin
“So, this is the cabin. It’s on the lake here, feel free to use the boats, and the bikes in the shed to go into town.” She pointed to the small shed in the trees across the willow sheltered lake.
I suppose I was sorry not to be able to concentrate on anything this lovely host was saying… but there was a cow two feet from me, staring me down like I was made of grass, and she hasn’t eaten in days. So many cows. I’m from the city, I get so giddy when I see farm animals on my train commute from London to Manchester between university terms. This was different gravy. I could have climbed the measly fence and milked ‘em myself if I really wanted to.
He nudged my arm, snapping me out of my staring contest with the magnetizing beast. The cows and I established a level of friendship in our two nights and three days there. I waved to them as we ventured to the bike shed to explore the nearest town. I could have sworn when we crumbled along the gravel path coming back in that afternoon one of them lifted their head and nodded at me as if to say, welcome back.
Germany
My partner and I don’t really fight. We disagree, we tease, we scold, but we don’t fight. Our short time in Cologne showed me a lot about how I cannot light a fire in the middle of a still lake.
Our gas stove broke in Germany. I’m usually bad at handling things that go wrong. I’m a perfectionist and a planner and tend to drive people I’m in group projects with up the wall. I also love to look for blame and reasons why rather than accepting and troubleshooting. But no one was to blame. Blame wouldn’t have helped him fix it any faster or me calm down any quicker. Navigating challenges together taught me more about how to not let my perfectionism become paralyzing. Instead, I was instructed to go shopping and survey the city while he hunkered down with a set of pliers.
His is a slow dedicated process to watch the picture materialize piece by piece. I retreat from the magnitude of it all. From the impossible enormity of the pile in front of me. I collect the pieces in my own smaller picture.
I guess to be loved really is to be changed. When a person shows me calm calculation instead of the chaos I seem to crave, I know better now than to question it. What I want to crave instead is that still lake below the rolling green hill.
Holland
A night in the middle of nowhere can feel awfully strange unless you’re with someone who embodies home. It’s hard to define what home is when you grew up moving from house to house. The meaning of the word – home – has loosened over time for me, and maybe even lost its meaning. Only now have I found that home is not a place but a person. Home is where my friends are. Home is all the trinkets I collect and continue to box up and move to new shelves. Home is the posters that collect paint chips from the four walls I’ve ever momentarily called “my room.” Home is the person you can share a sleeping bag with in a free parking lot between Amsterdam and Rotterdam; the person with whom you’re able to sleep through the beating sounds of the city reverberating through the station next door.
Home is the person you can both laugh at and with as you watch the chocolate dipped Stroop waffle stain the corners of his mouth. Home is not feeling like a burden when you ask them to take another picture of you with the cats perched in the gardens of the Cat Museum. Home is when you drive off the six-hour ferry from the Hook of Holland to Harwich and they say to you, “See, you aren’t scared of boats anymore.”
No, I was just scared of falling in and being swallowed by the wake. I know now you will catch me right as the Channel seas tickle my feet. I know now you will steady the dizziness in my head after we’ve tumbled down that rolling green hill.
