Travel Pathology

I twisted the key in the lock of room 15 and pushed the old wooden door along the carpet, revealing the small interior of my room. One step inside, and my knee collided with the bed frame as I lowered my bag onto the floor. I stepped over to the balcony doors and opened them, letting in the crisp Parisian air. To my left, there is an antique wardrobe with the key still in the lock. I peered inside and found an extra blanket, then turned to inspect the wash basin at the other end of the room. And just like that, my unplanned check-in at the Port-Royal Hotel on Boulevard de Port-Royal, Paris, France, was complete.

Just seven hours earlier, I had been standing at the terminal in Lisbon, Portugal, sending my mother off back to the States after a week of adventuring through Madeira and Sintra. She expressed her jealousy that I would be back home, as in Edinburgh, by late afternoon. Ever since my easy arrival from Edinburgh to Funchal, she had been talking about her constant dream of moving to Europe, where travel is so much more accessible.

I shrugged. There wasn’t much I could say—she was right. It’s a luxury to experience entirely different cultures, taste diverse cuisines, and speak a new language in the morning, only to fly for a few hours and return home to a completely different array of food, language, and culture—all in the same day, and for a fraction of the cost. Back in Colorado, today’s journey home (home as in Edinburgh?) would be the equivalent of driving from my hometown to the state capital.

We joke for a little longer, squeeze a little tighter, then we were off on our separate voyages home. Home, for me, being Scotland.

I was eager to return to all of it—the cobblestone streets, the misty rain, my coffee from the roaster in Brunstfield, and my bed with its fluffy duvet that guards against the delightfully cold nights. My anticipation only deepens as the Earth rotates into the “ber” months (September, October, November, December) ushering in autumn. A season that, for me, signals hi-ber-nation. My mind swims with images of being tucked under blankets, sipping soup, watching the leaves change and blanket the streets. Of baking, crafting, and all those comforting hobbies that beckon to stay indoors. Tonight, my hibernation would begin the moment I unlocked the door to my apartment.

I checked in for the first leg of my journey to Paris Orly, where I would catch my connecting flight. There was a small delay for take off but nothing that would jeapordize my chances of catching my flight home in Paris. So I rested at the gate and I tried to make the time pass as quickly as possible by absorbing myself in my book. I couldn’t wait to be… home. Yes, that’s it. Edinburgh, home.

However, the title of this post likely gives away the outcome, as it’s obvious that a day later, I am still not home. Not in Scotland, but rather, Paris.

Honestly, I’ve already relayed the reasons for being stranded here in the city far too many times to the customer service reps and the refund claims center, so I’ll skip ahead to the part where I presented myself to some important manager of Transavia Airlines, with all the necessary documentation in hand, and was being punished by the delay of my first leg of the journey from Lisbon to Paris, and denied check-in due to a 10-minute margin of error. I pleaded in awful French, begged in emotionally charged English, but apparently, nothing could be done to get me on my reserved seat for the flight to Edinburgh.

My face flushed red, and I shook my head in disagreement as the man shrugged, indicating his resignation to help me.

“No, no, you see-lee American, you must stay in ze city. You will eat croissants, baguettes, and crêpes, drink wine, and spend ze evening strolling through ze streets of Paree. C’est magnifique, non?”

I realized that my distress stemmed from taking the airline’s check-in rules too personally and from feeling helpless because of my limited French. I wanted so badly to explain my situation, to find someone who might understand and help, but the language barrier, coupled with the nonchalant attitudes of the airline agents, only deepened my frustration.

After a few frustrated tears slipped out, I decided it was time to redirect my disappointment and try to see my situation in a better light. The truth was, I had been too focused on the inconvenience and not enough on the opportunity. I came to the conclusion that the situation was… actually quite lovely. Being stranded in Paris—of all places. I recall the feelings of anticipation I had felt when planning my first visit here two years ago, and the lovely time I had over last Christmas season seeing The Nutcracker. Paris hosts some of my most whimsical memories, and now I get to make more. Letting out a sigh of acceptance, I dropped my head to my phone screen, booked a cheap hotel in one of my favorite neighborhoods, and decided that tonight I would enjoy some classic French Cuisine. After all, it almost felt as if Paris itself wanted me to stay.

“Bonsoir.”

The front desk agent greeted me as I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and approached the counter. I silently prayed he wouldn’t be yet another Frenchman frustrated by my poor attempts at the language today as I provided my name for check-in.

“You just booked one hour ago?” he asked, though it sounded half like a statement. I nodded and explained that I had missed a connecting flight.

“Désolé,” he replied.

I smiled a genuine smile then said, “Oh, no problem, it worked out.” He chuckled and responded, “Oui! You are in Paris—it is not so bad!”

After settling into my hotel room, I dressed in my final set of clean clothes, washed tomorrow’s outfit in the basin, and hung it up to dry on the balcony railing. I waved at Frank, the front desk attendant, as I exited the hotel freshly showered and changed. Then, I wandered down the romantically lit and bustling Rue Mouffetard, admiring the fountains, statues, and the soft glow of the warm street lamps.

Le Vieux Bistrot was completely packed, and for good reason. The waiter graciously accepted my poorly delivered request in French for a table for one. As the group before of me exited, he guided me to a spot against the wall with a view of the street. Moments later, he seated two women at my table to conserve the highly demanded space.

“Hi, sorry to intrude on you here,” one of the women said in a strong American accent as she scooted her chair in next to mine.

“No, not at all. It’s just me, so I don’t need all four of these chairs,” I replied, smiling. After they settled in, I decided to strengthen the notion that I was more than happy to have company on this solo night in Paris. “Where are you guys from?” I asked.

“Seattle,” they responded.

“Oh, I love Seattle!” I said, reminiscing about my time living in Queen Anne, my daily runs along the Puget Sound, the weekly trips to Pike Place Market, and eating my way through Capitol Hill.

Our evening unfolded into two hours of fantastic conversation. Ashley and Lainey, two sisters traveling to Paris for the week, were delightful company. Our discussions wove through topics like wine, politics, French culture, and the art of baking the perfect loaf of bread. As my dinner companions prepared to settle their bill, they invited me to join them for drinks afterward. I thanked them for the offer but explained that I had a dessert on the way and would keep in touch via social media.

Shortly after their departure, the Parisian sky seemed to apologize for keeping me from rainy Edinburgh and gifted the city with a generous rainfall. I listened to the raindrops percuss the streets outside as I swirled my final sip of my Bourdeux.

“L’addicion, s’il vous plait.”

Dressed in clothes meant for the Portuguese sun, I thanked the waitstaff and stepped into the downpour, unprotected by the umbrella that lay hung up in my closet back in Scotland. I began to walk back to the Port-Royal hotel, the city lights tripling in reflection on the cobbled streets below. Parisians sauntered by, arms wrapped around each other under their umbrellas. I held a soft smile as I walked, until the illuminated sign of my hotel came into view.

As magical as it all was, the desire to get home as soon as possible remains palpable. I can’t wait to return to my little corner on Spotswood Street and Warrender Park. After a year abroad, I’m pleasantly surprised to hear my heart’s declaration: home is in Edinburgh. After years of living a nomadic life, of always having a next destination—there is no next destination for me right now. I’m unsure what will happen next year, but I know that Edinburgh is where I want to be. And this uncertainty doesn’t feel scary—it feels right. Because I’m where I want to be, where I’m supposed to be.

Not even a surprise getaway to Paris can distract me from my desire to get back home-preferably tonight, despite the fact that I’ve just received a notification my flight tonight has been delayed by an hour.

Ah, Paris! Pas encore!