Caught in the momentum which carries you to the end of a novel, I stayed up past 2 am finishing The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, a book I had begun, fittingly, in Berlin. Its conclusion induced a sort of dreamy paralysis, and it was some minutes before the room reasserted itself and prosaic considerations returned to my thoughts. I decided not to rouse my friend’s sweet-natured cat, nor, potentially, the other occupants, by unfolding the sofa bed to sleep, so I sat back in the gloom, in the half-light from the window in the opposite building, and stared out into a future that had no shape.
This was my first real experience of couch-surfing. No discredit to my couch-providing friend, who was astonishingly accommodating of my weeks-long takeover of his living area, but the inherent imbalance of the arrangement—free accommodation in exchange for less of an apartment—made it difficult for me not to feel like something of an intruder. A couple of times I pushed my good fortune by going about my ablutions in too leisurely a fashion while my friend’s boyfriend, also staying at the time, was rushing to meet an appointment. It speaks to my frame of mind during this period that my solution to any disharmony I may have caused was to write a self-deprecating poem entitled ‘Le parasite’, in which, among other crimes, I would confess to accidentally staining a bed sheet with the contents of a blister. Despite labouring determinedly in sunbathed gardens across Paris, I never managed to knock the thing into satisfactory shape, thank the merciful Lord. But because we’re friends, or family, or distant acquaintances, you can endure one stanza of stodgy iambic tetrameter.
Unearthly sounds awake the dead;
You stir and stumble for the light.
Displayed upon the sofa bed:
A snoring, farting parasite.
As if homing stray Australians weren’t commendable enough, my friend, the fabulous Monsieur T, took me to concerts and films, introduced me to his circle of similarly friendly, intelligent, creative Parisians, and arranged experiences I could not have hoped to have stumbled into unassisted. I’m sure I missed some of the subtleties—that is to say, all the words—of the three-hour presidential debate I had occasion to witness, but I won’t quickly forget the image of the deeply odious National Rally candidate baring her teeth in some alien approximation of a smile while the Anxious Left, gathered together in a small apartment, munched contemptuously on carrot sticks.
A few days later I accompanied Estlin, a pseudonymous friend of Monsieur T, to the ballot box and witnessed the casting of one of the 20,743,128 votes that did not go to Marine Le Pen. Estlin further increased my debt to the French by treating me to a couple of conversation-rich breakfasts and sending me on my way with a gift: her copy of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain. I’ll admit my first reaction, upon seeing the 716-page tome suddenly presented to me, was not gratitude but logistical concern; I had already acquired too many books on my travels and the business of packing was becoming increasingly physical. But there was no question of rejecting such a kind gesture—and, indeed, I wished to read the book.
Fortunately the heavens were smiling on me on the day of my departure and I managed to squash the Mann into a front compartment.