TRAVEL FAIL
MIND THE ARRIVAL GAP

 

I feel my neck violently snap back after nodding off, my eyes are heavier than they’ve ever been. The warm sun bounces off the Rhône River as I pull up the directions to my Airbnb. It’s hour 28 with no sleep, drunk off jet lag, and the bottle of wine consumed on the train. I can’t tell if the weird looks I’m getting on the street are because I look as dead as I feel or if that’s just the general French vibe (which turned out to be both). A word of advice: book your air travel and lodging check-in close together; none of this "4 hours between arrival and check-in will give me time to explore the city" nonsense. It’ll always be a mind-melting time warp that your body will never appreciate.

 

It’s my first time in Lyon, a truly wonderful city, but not one that can be fully enjoyed while suffering from such a severe transatlantic bitch slap. My head’s waging a war between the remnants of the sleeping meds I took on the flight, the gallon of coffee consumed at the train station, and the bottle of red consumed on the ride to Lyon. I resemble less of a human man and more of the corpse of a giant sloth reanimated via some sort of cocaine enema. Not really the best headspace to experience a city for the first time. 

Beware the park nap, its siren song does bode well for your dignity.

Walking-dead syndrome aside, I drag my luggage along the uneven pavement as Lyon is just starting to wake up. Finding the caffeine-induced anxiety too much, I dip into the closest coffee shop to compose myself with some food. Noting my decayed and weathered state, the cafe owner immediately slides a detox tea my way without a single word. God bless the French. They may be insular and aloof little creatures, but they can smell blurry-eyed, self-hating defeat from a mile away. As I make my way through the croissants and fresh fruit, I sense consciousness beginning to fade from me. I can feel the tea and coffee still running at full steam, but my brain has had enough and walked right off the assembly line. With the ole brain box on strike, my body takes to dropping like a sack of french potatoes, leading my head to slam, unabated by any sort of restraint, into my scolding hot cup of tea. How many decibels does it take for a fully packed, bustling cafe to collectively drop what they're doing and turn their attention to a 32-year-old child soaked in tea and cursing God for allowing his miserable existence to continue?  I don’t know the exact measurable level, but I imagine it’s close to the same amount as when you slam a feral cat’s tail in a heavy door.

Taking a shamefully tea-soaked exit, I find a small park nearby to tend to my mental and physical wounds. While the bench I was sitting on may have been stiff and uncomfortable, my body could not distinguish any difference between it and a mattress made from the wing of an angel. I don’t quite remember laying my head to rest on the worn and weathered wood, but when I woke two hours had passed and a few citizens of Lyon had stacked a couple Euros on my suitcase. Mistaking me for a slightly well-dressed tramp, I suppose if you saw the whole ordeal in real time: unwell looking man walks into cafe, unwell man falls asleep in his scolding tea, unwell man causes a loud profanity-filled scene, unwell man escapes to the comfort of a park bench, unwell man immediately passes out — you would think this unwell man is in desperate need of some sort of help.

My newfound fortune from my brief time as an unconscious panhandler in Lyon.

After counting my newly donated fortune of €2.40, I make my way to my Airbnb. Thanks to my little French siesta, I’m a bit late for the previously discussed check-in time. I hustle my way to the building where I was to meet with the owner of the flat. As I round the corner to the building’s front entrance, I see my Airbnb host waiting. Her face immediately drops the moment she sees me, and for very good reason. It takes me a second to register her face. It’s the same cafe owner who so graciously poured me the cup of tea, only to watch me descend into jet-lagged madness. Being just a block away from the Rhône River, I wondered if my luggage was heavy enough to tie to my ankle and keep me underwater till the shame faded along with my earthly body. 

Thankfully, after a marathon of apologizing and explaining my journey, she handed me the keys to the apartment (against her best judgment, I’m sure). I can’t imagine the horror she must have felt leaving her flat to the deranged American who wrecked her cafe and whom I’m sure she walked past as he slept on a park bench. I think she could see in my eyes, as I apologized in the worst French she’s heard, that my capacity for normal planning and human behavior was broken beyond repair. Keys in hand, I stumbled up to the apartment, saving the city of Lyon from any more of my narcoleptic antics. As my head hit the first pillow it had touched in 28 hours, I couldn’t help but think, "I’ll never leave a 4-hour gap between arrival and check-in ever again."