Eric
This
is the day I have dreaded for seventeen years.
If
Barcelona was like something out of a James Bond film, then San Sebastian is
like something out of a Sarah Jessica Parker film. It’s fashionable without
being quaint, historic without being outdated, and paradisiacal without being
paradise. CJ and I roused ourselves a little on the early side for a quick
sortie into the old quarter for some last-second souvenir shopping. Our goal
had been a souvenir t-shirt shop because, well, CJ, but unfortunately it had
yet to open. However, it did have a website so I suggested that we
game the system and order a souvenir online once we were back stateside.
After
meeting up with the rest of the riff raff-er, students back at the hotel, we
ventured forth and promptly… missed the ideal bus. By less than a minute. In true
Arch fashion, we called an audible and took a different bus to a bus stop that
was near enough to the train station that we only had to sprint madly to make
the train. No biggie. Arch students poured out of the bus in front of the Buen
Pastor (Good Shepherd) Cathedral and scattered in seemingly every direction.
Just a small group of Americans stampeding through San Sebastian, which felt
apropos given that we were in Basque country and near enough to Pamplona that
none of the natives seemed particularly unnerved by it. Actually, I don’t know
that for sure. I didn’t see much other than the map and street signs. We made
the station with mere minutes to spare, aided by a kindly platform attendant.
And aside from the difficulty in closing Diana’s luggage despite the combined
weight of her and Cheryl (which, why was it open in the first place! Wait—no, I
don’t want to know—just get on the train!)…we boarded the train to Hendaye.
The
Spanish countryside receded behind us and we entered France, in my case for the
first time since my mission. I took Matt and CJ with me to search for some
camera film but we only managed to find a patisserie with chocolates, ham &
swiss on buttered baguette sandwiches, and waffles that are so decadent they
might as well be called wrongffles. The TGV arrived and we boarded it with much
less drama than most of our previous transports. It didn’t sit well with us so
we invented some drama of our own just to let the Fates know that we still had
one wary eye on them. Cooper, Matt, Chip and I filmed some trailer scenes for a
comedy spoof entitled Snakes on a Train, which pretty much consists of
us quoting variations of Samuel L. Jackson lines and running away from nothing
that even remotely resembled a snake (we’ll fix it in post). Then Drew made the
tragic mistake of falling asleep with his mouth open. It was so open you might
as well call it “agape.” Well… I mean, who could resist. When he finally did
wake up, he chewed, swallowed, then looked around blearily and said, “what the
h___ did I just eat?” Truth be told, I’m still not sure.
And
if that’s the truth, then so is this: I was grateful for the distraction. In
the quiet moments leading up to this (of which there were precious few), I had
experienced bouts of sentimentality. I thought of France and my time there. Of
grec shops and mille feuille. Of cathedrals and prefectures. Of the French and
the French-Africans. Of slammed doors and subway conversations and chalk
drawings and held hands and laughter and fatigue and tears and tears and tears
and tears. I thought of who I had been and who I had become. Of how meaningful
my mission had been. How the person who came home to Montana was not the person
who had left. And I felt a creeping terror of accounting for the seventeen
years that had passed since I had been away.
Or I
tried to. I was kinda laughing too hard at the prank played on Drew to dwell
too much on it. And Matt’s mind was being blown about the surf seen beyond the
window that I had to help him ask a woman the name of the location (which will
remain a closely guarded secret until Matt can surf it). And CJ and I worked on
figuring out how many dollars remained in the trip’s budget based off of the number
of Euros we had spent. And the buses wouldn’t load us to take us to Libourne—oh
no, wait, we’re on the next one? What’s wrong with—I mean why can’t we?—never
mind, we’ll take the next one. And Diana has all the willingness but needs just
a touch of help speaking with some of the French people. And Matt is talking to
a girl who speaks English really well but he’s dissing farms and I’m sitting
right here! And Noah, who everyone is convinced is something between a
traveling savant and a ninja, continues to roll through this trip with barely a
peep… well, except for when he stretches and, yeti-like, he suddenly becomes
the loudest person in the room. And then there’s a gaggle of monks waiting for
us (it’s a “gaggle” right? “Flock," maybe? I doubt it’s a “murder”). And
our driver, from the south of Spain, telling us how he had come to Plum Village
a year ago for a week that ended up lasting a year; how everything is wonderful
and peaceful; how as he says it I can’t believe how much I miss my wife.
We
arrive at Plum village and I know it’s going to happen. I’m going to start
bawling any moment. I’m back in France for the first time since the last time
and the last time I cried so hard that I couldn’t form words; couldn’t conjure
them in my mind; both languages had failed me and all I had to communicate with
my loved ones were tears and emptiness. And I know that it’s all going to come
rushing back at me. I was born in America but it was in France that I became
me.
And
there’s Wesley, walking about the grounds, taking in what there is to see. He
had been quiet most of the day, which isn’t terribly like him. It had been a
day of sights and sounds and sensations. Enough to distract an old has-been
missionary from a life lived a lifetime ago, back when I was Wesley’s age. And
now all of that had been stilled and there’s Wesley taking it all in. And I
wonder if all that stillness and silence is overwhelming him. “What do you
think, Wesley?” I do want to know but if I’m being honest, I just
need a new distraction.
“It’s
beautiful here,” he says.
It’s
beautiful here.
He’s
right. He says it and I see it. I’m not back in France at all.
Truth
is, I never left.
