People

Traveling seems to have completely erased my friend filter. I’ll pretty much hang out with anyone. As long as he or she can speak a tiny bit of English, we’re okay. Male, female, young, old … it doesn’t matter. In Minneapolis 90% of my friends fall into the same demographic: 23-28 years old, Caucasian, college-educated, native English speakers. It’s just worked out that way; you attract people who are similar to yourself. But in hostels, the common bond we all share is that we’re away from home, don’t want to get robbed, are preoccupied with things like clean clothing and cheap food, and spend a large chunk of our day with our faces buried in maps. We’re exhausted from long hours spent wandering up and down twisty-turny streets and there’s a thin layer of grime that covers our skin from the exhaust-filled air and dirty metro stations.

The traveler's bond is a surprisingly strong one. After a few hours spent wandering around a foreign city with someone, regardless of how much talking you’ve done, a kind of unspoken pact is formed: keep tabs on the whereabouts of the other person, offer to share whatever it is you’re eating, grab extra maps for one another, point out helpful locations like post offices and metro stops, answer questions about your culture, promise to visit one another’s home countries, discuss hostel experiences, and offer advice for future destinations.


I spent the majority of my day Thursday with a 41-year-old Mexican named Miguel. We toured the Arc de Triomphe, ate dinner in an Italian restaurant, and discovered a common love for Pink Floyd during our walk to the Eiffel Tower. I let him listen to Dark Side of the Moon on my iPod and he got so excited that he spontaneously grabbed my shoulders, kissed my cheek and exclaimed, “I’m so happy!” We both sang along as we walked beside the Seine, though he was the only one who could hear the actual music.


Last night I met an 18-year-old Brit named Duncan in the common area of our hostel. He was eating a giant loaf of bread and asked me when I’m from. A couple hours later we were sitting in a crowded pub in the Bastille area watching two men play craps on top of the bar. I learned that Duncan’s parents are hippies, he loves pigeons, and he’s worried that going to the University of Cambridge will turn him into a snob.


Today I went to Versailles with my roommates, a German couple named Andy and Mellie. They’re incredibly gracious and sweet and modest about their English-speaking capabilities. I'm really lucky to have them as roommates because not only are they clean, but they don't snore. Those qualities in tandem can be hard to find.

I leave for Madrid tomorrow evening. I’m nervous, but I’m sure everything will be fine. It’ll be nice to stay somewhere other than a hostel for a few nights and I’m really looking forward to doing laundry.

Oh and I got groped some random dude yesterday. I knew it had to happen sometime. I was getting on the bus with Duncan, leaving Bastille, and some disgusting old man grabbed my ass. I quickly moved away, stood close to Duncan, and avoided eye contact. Why French men think it’s okay to do that, I don’t know. But I will not hesitate to slam my fist in someone’s eye if it gets to be too much.