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| The Old Mill of Vernon, Vernon |
15th April 2015
A sharp scent of second-hand, stale smoke and lingering alcohol hit me as I opened my eyes. The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting a harsh light on our dishevelled surroundings. For a brief moment, I lost track of where I was until the throbbing in my head jolted me back to reality, filling me with instant regret for the excesses of last night. Note to self: when it’s thirty degrees outside, and it’s only your second day backpacking, don’t drink too much the night before. Desperate for hydration and relief from my hangover, I grabbed my water bottle, only to find it completely empty. My eyes searched between the kitchen tap and my empty bottle, uncertain if the water in France was safe to drink (which, as it turns out, it is)—definitely something I should have checked before leaving England. Another note to self: find out if the water is drinkable in another country before knocking back several strong beers and a bottle of champagne.
It was 7:00am, and Jack (my boyfriend) and I were leaving Amiens today to continue our French adventure. With every item I shoved into my backpack, memories of last night flickered like an old film reel—laughing with our new local friends, the clink of glasses ringing in the air, the men taking their “whiskey breaks” while the girls unleashed their most unapologetic dance moves to the Spice Girls. If only I could bottle that feeling and transport it to this moment of regret.
We stumbled out of the flat, the cool morning air greeting us like a refreshing slap in the face. The streets of Amiens were quiet, the usual bustle of life subdued as if the city itself was nursing a hangover. As we headed back to the train station, our minds urged us to "seize the day..." Carpe Diem and all that, yet our faces told a different story. I felt grimy and hungover, longing for my own bed back in England and a cheap and greasy, not-so-foreign Domino's pizza.
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| How I felt when I woke up hungover in Amiens |
We arrived at our next stop, Rouen, around 11:00am, and thankfully, my hangover had begun to fade. I started to feel a sense of gratitude for my first night in France and the people I had met along the way. Jack, on the other hand, was still struggling with a brutal hangover, dragging himself through the Old Town and looking utterly miserable. As I took in the sights, trying to make the most of our limited time in Rouen, Jack continued to sulk and shy away from the sunlight. Regretting the previous night’s “whiskey breaks,” he decided that the only breaks he’d be taking from now on were the ones to rest his weary body under the weight of his heavy backpack.
The city of Rouen was filled with elaborate architecture and impressive churches to admire. However, after wandering in the sweltering heat for what felt like hours, we dashed for the nearest patch of shade and collapsed onto the cool grass. The weight of our backpacks, packed with our lives for the next two months felt heavier with each passing moment. As we gulped down water and contemplated our next move, we reached the same conclusion in unison: “Ah, f**k it. Let’s find a café, book the cheapest hotel nearby to regroup, and try to remember why this whole travelling thing is worth it.” It had only been one day, and already we were yearning for a night in a hotel to ourselves.
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| Hungover in Rouen, France |
As we arrived at our hotel in Vernon, situated directly across from a drab and uninviting industrial estate, I couldn’t help but feel that our “home for the night” perfectly mirrored my mood. It was probably karma for seeking refuge in a hotel just two days into our trip. Shoving my way past Jack and muttering some kind half-hearted French to the receptionist, all I wanted was to hurl my backpack across the room, rip off my clothes, and scrub away the sweat and misery from today’s exhausting journey.
I instantly felt rejuvenated after my shower and began to think that the hotel’s location in Saint-Marcel wasn’t so terrible after all. But just as quickly, karma slapped us in the face again when we discovered how hard it was to find a place to eat—or even a simple shop! Everything was either closed or miles away, and all I craved was a cold, fizzy drink. I was seriously tempted to throw myself into the River Seine to hydrate and deal with the aftermath later.
After dragging our feet for fifty minutes, desperately craving any kind of food and drink, we finally stumbled upon a McDonald's. Hooray! “Yep, that’ll do nicely,” I thought. I specifically ordered a large meal, mostly for the size of the drink. But as I gulped down the cold, watered-down Coke, I quickly realised the anticlimax of it all. “Ah, screw it,” I reminded myself. “You’re a traveller now; get used to it.”
