It was my first summer in London and I couldn’t wait to go travelling in Europe. But – where would I go? How would I get there? And... who would come with me?
With eight of us sharing a small three-bedroom flat in West London, there always seemed to be a copy of The Evening Standard scattered around the lounge room, with someone searching through the classifieds for a new job, another perhaps for a new flat, another for what was on in London and yet another for the latest travel deals. And the offer that caught my eye was the coach over to Paris... and because he also wanted to go travelling, and because sharing a room would be cheaper, one of my flatmates decided he’d come too.
‘Sorted!’ I thought.
But it was disastrous. Before we’d even arrived in Paris, we’d run out of things to talk about. We arrived with completely different itineraries in mind: his was more of a checklist that included the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysees; mine (I guess because I’d been to Paris before) was much more haphazard, and included visiting some of the museums I hadn’t been to and much wandering through the narrow hilly streets of Montmartre where our hotel was. By our second day there, we were going our separate ways during the day – only stuck with each other in the evenings when I would sit on our tiny balcony, writing letters and postcards, and he would lie inside watching cartoons, complaining that they were in French. He wasn’t enjoying Paris and neither of us was enjoying the other’s company.
On the evening of our last day in Paris, we joined the long queue at the coach station and I made a decision. I turned to him and said, ‘I’m not going back with you – I’m staying.’
Un point, c’est tout.
I just couldn’t bear another seven or eight – or more – hours of his surly silence on the coach. And, more importantly, I didn’t have to be back at work for another few days, so... why not? I hadn’t booked a room for that night but I knew my way back to our hotel, had my guidebook, my phone and enough money to stay another night or two. What could go wrong?
Well, the hotel we’d stayed in was fully booked. But the concierge suggested a few other hotels in Montmartre I could try and, a little later that evening, I found a youth hostel nearby where I could share a dorm room. It was pretty full so I met quite a few more travellers, saw a bit more of the city (although the rain set in so I didn’t stay on as long as I thought I might) and discovered I could quite easily, and dreamily, find my way around Paris and back to London again on my own.
The Eiffel Tower at the turn of the millennium
The view from my balcony (You can see the raindrops on the railing...)
