Sojourn: Volume Eight: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell, #8

By Meghan McDonnell

In Sojourn: Volume Eight of this existential and addictive real-life series, McDonnell travels to Western Europe for two months, loses a close family friend, and grapples with the meaning of creativity and life purpose. This is a deep dive in to the nature of existence, physicality, addiction, and redemption.

For over 30 years, McDonnell has intimately chronicled her life beginning at age eight through present day. With searing candor and tenderness, her musings on daily experiences and observations of family, social and romantic relationships, and the interior life coalesce in a commentary on facing passion and fear, embracing the light and dark, and American life in the 21st century. Wide in scope and vivid and provocative in detail, her journals are her confessional love letter to the world. Join her on a fearless, vulnerable, profoundly surprising, sometimes painful and quixotic, but always honest journey, also known as the human experience. Readers who love Joan Didion or Cheryl Strayed will enjoy this author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meghan McDonnell
• Release date: May 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386990390

Meghan McDonnell

Meghan McDonnell lives in Walla Walla with her husband and two kitties. When she’s not writing or reading, she spends time outdoors, sits by a fire, solves crossword puzzles, and pretends to garden. She’s been known to listen to a true crime podcast or ten and wants to be a detective. You can learn more about her by reading her books.

Book preview

Sojourn: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell

Volume Eight

Meghan McDonnell

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Copyright 2018 Meghan K. McDonnell

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Titles by Meghan McDonnell:

Minor: Volume One

Novice: Volume Two

Limbo: Volume Three

Elsewhere: Volume Four

Faithful: Volume Five

Vespers: Volume Six

Onward: Volume Seven

Sojourn: Volume Eight

Ingress: Volume Nine

Witness: Volume Ten

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Note

All names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I have solely recorded my interpretations and opinions of all events. Certain place names have been changed. Aside from minor edits, all else is as I wrote it at the time. If you’re new to the journals, welcome. If you’re a veteran, thank you for coming back for more. You’ll find links to songs, books, films, and more throughout the text, and a playlist at the end.

Contents

May 2003

June 2003

July 2003

August 2003

September 2003

October 2003

November 2003

December 2003

January 2004

February 2004

March 2004

April 2004

May 2004

June 2004

July 2004

August 2004

Playlist

May 2003

Saturday, May 3, 2003

We have arrived in beautiful Paris. We couldn’t sleep on the flights so we were up for 30+ hours. Delirium. Once we got to the city, we walked for hours before we found the hostel we’d chosen. It was booked full. We were beat and it began to rain. We found a lovely place to stay on the third floor of a hotel on Rue des Ecoles with a balcony that overlooks the street. I took a photo of Carson from it, with Mansard roofs in the background. We woke at 7:30 a.m. to a beautiful morning. After walking around sipping cappuccino, we found a new place to stay called Hotel Central in Contrescarpe. Our own room, a shower, and table and chairs by a window for €39.

We sightsaw today. First, the Pantheon, a block from our lodging. We strolled Luxembourg Gardens after passing by the Sorbonne. It disappointed me but I love that it has stood there since the 13th century, started by a small group of theologians who were too poor to afford an education.

We walked down Boulevard Saint-Germain and over to Notre Dame across the river. Exquisite. I cried, awed by the beauty of it. It’s powerful, too, how many people have gone there over centuries to pray, atone, and absolve. A kind woman greeted us inside. She told us that Jesus wants to bring us into His heart. We took our time walking through, mouths agape. After, we walked down to the river for lunch.

We walked by the Louvre but didn’t go inside. Tomorrow, they offer free admission. We’ll go. We must see the Mona Lisa firsthand. We hear it’s small and that crowds gather before it but why not see it?

Tomorrow, were going to Montmartre to see the Sacre Couer before we take a train to Bruges. After a jaunt by the Louvre yesterday, we walked to the Eiffel Tower. It was monstrous and swarming with tourists. It’s beautiful from a distance. I first saw it while we rode across a bridge into the city from the airport. Up close, it’s beastly and funny-looking. We walked back through the Latin Quarter to the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation, dedicated to the French people who were deported during World War II and died in internment and concentration camps. It disturbed me.

We walked down stone steps to a carved-out circle. I saw the river through stone and iron bars. We walked between two slabs, claustrophobically close together, into a stone room with cells, modeled after (I assume) the ones the prisoners were confined to. Bars shielded a room with a mausoleum. On either side of it, long rows of tiny lights extended back so far; hundreds of thousands of little lightbulbs, each one representing a human being who never returned after being forced out of France by Nazi Germans. It is a devastating and gorgeous monument. Words written on a plaque: Forgive, but never forget.

We moved on to Ile Saint-Louis and tried to find Hotel de Ville. We walked into an area with multiple buildings boasting this distinction. Signs pointed every which way, leading to nowhere, a seemingly non-existent place. I wasn’t impressed with the confusion. (Everything in Paris should be made to my liking, no?)

We found a café to play cards and have a beer. Our French is lacking but we manage. Everyone has been kind, despite people back home insisting that the French are rude. Carson and I have mastered the words, Oui, non, merci, merci beau coup, combien?, Parlez-vous anglais?, and Desole. Je ne parle pas francais.

I emailed Skyler and Claire earlier. Carson and I went to Shakespeare & Co., an English bookshop, before going back to our hotel to take a four-hour nap. I got Zadie Smith’s White Teeth and Carson got The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.

We feel out of our element at intervals but we are elated to be here. I’ve gotten uptight a couple times from disorientation. I need to keep in mind that Carson and I are allies. We are in this together. The sooner I learn to keep my cool, the better off we both are. This is true for life and travel.

It’s strange what travel does to you. It affects me and inspires me. It makes me reflect on home, different languages, ways of living. It brings me euphoria and elation. It brings fear and trepidation. I’m proud of Carson. This is strange and different from anything he has done before but he’s open to it.

It’s midnight. We woke up after our naps and played cards and drank wine. We need to go back to sleep soon to make the most of tomorrow.

I love Carson. It’s good to be in love in Paris.

Love, Meghan

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Monday, May 5, 2003

We’re in Bruges. We had a great day in Paris yesterday. We stopped at the café below our hotel. A sweet woman gave us perfect directions to Gare du Nord. When we got there, we discovered that another train for Bruges wasn’t leaving until this morning. We weren’t sad about another day in Paris. We walked to the touristy Montmartre and saw the Sacre Couer, which was beautiful. Elizabeth told me it was her favorite part of Paris. We’ve had some strong beer since we got to Bruges, so bear with me.

I’m bummed that we didn’t see the Moulin Rouge and places that bohemians called home in Paris but next time. We got a room at Hotel Central again. We walked to the Louvre. It’s enormous. We saw the Mona Lisa but it isn’t much fun when museum guards push you through with cattle prods. We saw grand paintings, mostly religious. There were so many right next to each other that it was difficult to decide which ones to focus on. We saw Venus de Milo and headed back to Contrescarpe.

We got tipsy in a bar and met our first rude Frenchwoman, an old bird on the street. I asked her how to get to Boulevard Saint-Michel. Now, I don’t speak French but I’m fluent in facial expression, body language, and tone of voice. She muttered something about speaking French when you come to France. Reminds me of our brethren back in the United States. It didn’t faze me. Other than looking for lodging, I am relaxed here, especially in Bruges.

This town is delightful and it’s easy compared to Paris. Quaint cobbled streets and old buildings. Carson and I were in heaven while we walked around yesterday. We ate chocolate, walked through the market, and stopped for a beer in place with over 300 varieties on tap. We meant to have just one. But we sat at a table next to four Americans from Portland, Oregon. One of them graduated from Western a couple years ago.

We talked to them for hours, drinking dangerously delicious beer. One of the guys warned us, You’ll want another one because it tastes so good but before you know it, you’ll be drunk. This is precisely what happened. We stumbled home after three beers. I wish we would have seen more of the town last night. We didn’t foresee the high-alcohol content beers.

Today, we plan to walk all through town and do laundry. I want to see the Van Eyck exhibit. Europe is good for my body. We wake early, shower, and hit the road. My body temperature regulates itself here. We walk miles each day.

People in Bruges are friendly. We could stay here for days but we head to Amsterdam tomorrow.

Love, Meghan

P.S. I like writing here. My senses are absorbing. Carson and I have been having strange and vivid dreams.

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Thursday, May 8, 2003

We’re on a train moving through Germany. The coffee tastes wonderful and the seats are comfortable. We have a table by a large window in the smoking car.

Carson and I racked our brains the other night in Bruges, trying to remember where we got tipsy before we walked to the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame so we could see them lit up at night. We walked into a funny little bar that evening. There was grass on the floor. We stood at the gates of Notre Dame at night, staring at the gorgeous architecture.

We reminisced about a bar we stopped in on our first night in Paris. We’d been walking for hours in the rain, looking for a place to spend the night when we found it. When we went into the bathroom (unisex), we discovered a hole in the floor. As a man, you stand above it to pee. If you’re a gal, you squat. A man in that bar knew less English than we know French. He kept telling us, It’s okay. We realized he meant that it’s okay that we are Americans, even though Bush is president. He told us he likes Jean-Claude Van Damme.

Carson has referenced this guy several times since we met him last week. It makes me laugh because at first, Carson said, Do you remember that guy from our first night? Toby? Since then, Carson has called Toby Tabby, Cherie, and other names in between. Spit flew out of Toby’s mouth when he got especially excited. He and his female friend told us to go next door and see their friend Maurice about a place to stay. We declined.

I’m a fair way through White Teeth. I am taken with Zadie Smith. She was 25 when she published this book. Makes me think I need to get my ass in gear.

When we went to Sacre Couer, a few women got in our grills and drew us on sketchpads. I walked past them but Carson said to wait. These women drew us and then expected €50. What a joke. I told Carson to keep walking whenever people insist on drawing, selling, soliciting. I asked him to follow my lead when I walk away from a street vendor.

On Tuesday morning, in Bruges, we climbed the winding 366 steps to the belfry in the tower at the center of town. At the top, we caught an aerial view of town. Breathtaking. The bells chimed while we looked. They made me laugh with their relentless loudness. We walked down after my vertigo subsided and walked to the Groeningemuseum to see what we thought would be the Van Eyck exhibit. They only had a few of his works. Our favorite was The Last Judgement by Hieronymous Bosch. Bosch was so detailed. Incredible. He was ahead of his time. He painted mechanically, grotesquely, beautifully. Bosch painted futuristically while communicating universal and timeless themes. Dali must have been influenced by him.

The last painting that I saw disturbed me. Once in a while, an image enters my path and stays with me. Like the t-shirt I saw in the East Village, of a woman defecating into a pervert’s mouth. The painting that got to me and stayed with me depicted a man being drawn, quartered, and skinned. I could accept the knives that pierced his flesh and the blood they drew. But not the places of the painting where the skin of his entire calf was peeled away from knee to ankle, exposing veins and muscles.

After the museum, we walked. We did laundry, ate, and we walked more. We walked at night to see the town lit up. We got a cheap beer at our hostel, Passages, which Carson realized must be a reference to EM Forster’s A Passage to India. We looked through the CDs lining the shelf behind the bar, with titles like Buddha III and Buddha IV. We should have known it was a hippie hotel.

I talked to Mom and I loved it. The calling card ran out too fast. She said she’ll e-mail me. We’ll call home when we get to Frankfurt, where we’re meeting Carson’s friend Lindsey. She’s been living there all year and will know how to call home.

We got to Amsterdam yesterday. A scam artist came to greet us. When we got off the train, she approached Carson and asked if we’d like a €50 hotel room. She told us she was paid to find boarders. I’ll bet she was paid for something. I smelled a rat.

We walked from the station with her and she called someone to tell them we were on our way. When we got to the hotel, she walked up a staircase and beckoned us. I said, Thank you. We’ll come back later. She pulled the whole fake confused/why-don’t-you-want-to-come trick. We kept walking and a British guy looked at Car and said, She’s not taking you to your hotel, mate. When Carson looked back at him to inquire, the man looked away unassumingly, whistling and moving on.

We found a place to stay and walked to the Van Gogh museum. Marvelous. We stayed until close. It was quite the collection. They had Van Gogh’s paintings, including the original of a print we have above our bed. The collection included assorted works by painters who influenced Vincent. I loved one that Gauguin painted of Van Gogh painting sunflowers.

We walked back to our hotel and then to the Anne Frank House, where she hid during the occupation. Incredible. A writer and survivor wrote that the world mourns for Anne Frank, one of the millions who died; that most faces go unrecognized but maybe this is better: If we could comprehend the suffering and despair of all who died and endured the Holocaust, we could not live. It would be unbearable.

Carson and I left the museum and walked for hours, heavy and quiet. We ate pizza and drank beer and went to bed in time to rise early for breakfast and movement.

We didn’t smoke pot in Amsterdam. I didn’t like it much and it wasn’t like I’d hoped or imagined. I don’t mind. Vincent Van Gogh and Anne Frank made it worth it. We’re almost to Frankfurt and I have enjoyed this train ride. I look forward to seeing a familiar face (Lindsey) and communicating with family and friends through phone and email.

We met a charming man from Belgium on the train yesterday. Carson and I are pretty darn good at this traveling business.

Love, Meghan

P.S. I need to call Claire and tell her we’re on our way slowly but surely. What a great way we’re coming.

P.P.S. I miss Sylvie.

P.P.P.S. I love that Skyler and I reconnect when one of us is traveling.

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Friday, May 8, 2003

Ich glaub - mir steht ein

Guten tag. The above translates to: I believe - I am. Or some such, in German. We saw it in a bar last night, below a framed drawing of a rooster.

I kind of freaked out last night. We walked through train stations and got lunch when we arrived in Frankfurt. We got a hold of Carson’s friend Lindsey when we figured out to drop the area code when we called her. We took a tram to her flat and met her and her roommate, Jonathan. He’s a kind and intelligent young man who speaks fluent German. We walked to the river Main. It’s lined with beer huts that offer drinks when you put a deposit down on a glass. It was a lovely evening.

Carson and Lindsey played catch-up while Jonathan and I talked. I felt shafted by Carson and wanted to be alone but I didn’t want to cause a scene. Car came after me when I wandered off from the group after we’d walked along the river to Old Town.

I cried and asked why my needing alone-time and needing space to write automatically translates to me not wanting to be around him. We talked briefly and met back up with the mates. Lindsey and Jonathan went home and Carson and I went to an old timer’s bar, each patron likely a regular. We had a beer and shared a shot of Jim Beam.

One of the regulars bought us shots of a strange quaff that came with a miniature French flag poking up from the glass. We were about to shoot them when the man ran to us, took the toothpick with the flag, and extracted what I thought was a worm. It looked like a leech. He stuck it in Carson’s mouth and made a motion for Carson to chew and drink the shot. Caron’s expression was priceless. He tried to get up to go to the bathroom because he thought he was going to ralph but I wouldn’t let him. I wanted to know what to expect so I kept him there while his nausea subsided and went through the process myself, laughing hysterically. It was a dehydrated pear (I think), fermenting in a liquor. It wasn’t pleasant. Polka music played. The place had a cozy feel and was a great respite from the other cheesy bars in the neighborhood.

We walked home through a beautiful thunder and lightning storm and read until we fell asleep. I feel weird around Carson and Lindsey. He lavishes attention on her and I fade to the periphery. She’s a friend he’s known forever. I wish I could accept that they enjoy seeing each other. It made me feel alone last night.

This morning, I realized the discomfort that Lindsey causes in me: she’s not a woman’s woman. She’s male-oriented. She understands, relates to, and enjoys men more than she does women. Lindsey has dated most of the guys in her and Carson’s old circle of friends. While she’s a pretty and feminine girl, there’s something sporty, sporting, and masculine in her - like Jordan Baker from The Great Gatsby. She’s more in tune with a man in the room than a woman. I don’t know if my assessment is accurate, but I have a hard time with girls like that. Lindsey has been kind and I am sure I’ve made it more awkward than it needs to be.

I’m lonely for Cassie and Skyler. I can’t wait to see Claire in a couple weeks. I like Frankfurt. I want to go to Darmstadt, where Mom and Dad lived in the early 1970s. We’re going to the Mosel Valley this weekend, on our way to Prague. I emailed Nigel. He opened a restaurant with his girlfriend in a suburb of London. He said he’d love to see us but it will have to be in London. He can’t go on holiday because he has to look after the restaurant. He told me that Teddy bought a house with his girlfriend north of London but he just broke up with the girl. And fair Mark. Sweet Mark is at Oxford on scholarship for rowing. He may go to the Olympics this year or next if he can, as Nigel puts it, stop boozing so much and barking at people. It was great to hear from Nigel and it made me realize how much we have all grown up since we met four years ago in Australia. I hope they get a chance to meet Carson.

Love, Meghan

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Saturday, May 9, 2003

Carson and I took a train to Darmstadt yesterday so we could see Mom and Dad’s old stomping grounds. We were at a loss for what to do and see. I tried to call Mom but we’ve struggled to understand the phone situation since Paris. If we don’t buy the right calling card, the phone won’t accept it. We walked through town in hard rain. We got upset and stood under an awning and argued. We felt awful. We walked through the downpour. We had a beer and played cards and talked before walking back to the train station. I felt sad that I hadn’t gotten a hold of Mom. I was disappointed. I’d been so excited to see where they lived but I didn’t have enough information before we left for our day trip.

We went to Lindsey and Jonathan’s and watched Jackass: The Movie on a laptop. I crashed early and hard on Carson’s stomach. We’re leaving for the Mosel Valley this morning and I look forward to getting back to old, rustic, beautiful towns. I’m having a hell of a time getting a cappuccino. I’m back at Caffe Fellini, the coffee shop I came to yesterday.

Carson’s friend Eloise lives in Prague now and we’ll meet her there on Monday. Nigel emailed again and sent his phone number. He said Teddy wants to see us if we go to London.

I want to see more of Germany - old places that I have pictured in my mind and seen in books, where women wear dirndls and men wear Tyrolean hats. I want to go to the towns where you can see snowy peaks from the windows of wooden and stone pubs, and beer flows frothy from steins.

Love, Meghan

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Monday, May 12, 2003

We have arrived in old, beautiful, well-preserved Praha. I am beat. On Saturday, Lindsey and Jonathan took us out to brunch in Frankfurt. We walked to the shopping district. On our way through a park, we saw a man masturbating.

Carson and I took a train to Trier, along the Mosel River. The ride was gorgeous. We had a large car to ourselves. We rode through the Rhine and Mosel river valleys, dotted with castles on hills. In Trier, we found a cheap youth hostel. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant and stopped for a beer before bed.

We sightsaw yesterday. We couldn’t find Karl Marx’s house. No tears shed. I’m not too fond of old Karl, you see. We walked along the river. I got thirsty so we stopped in a bar. The woman running the place was sassy and the regulars were three sheets to the wind, just shy of 11:30 a.m. local time. Flies swarmed.

It annoys me that no one in Europe drinks water. They only drink carbonated mineral water. I’ve read that carbonation robs the bones of calcium and that it inhibits hydration.

We walked to Porta Nigra (the black gate, for those of us who don’t speak Latin) that was built in 200 AD. Trier is Germany’s oldest town and saw its heyday during the Roman Empire. We went to the ruins (some intact) of Constantine’s bathhouses. It was creepy and great. We walked into the underground through maze-like tunnels with archways and halls that extended in several directions. It was extraordinary to be in a patch of sunlight outside and then to walk in five feet to one of the entrances, into the cool, fecund, damp smell of earth - places the sun never touches. Not quite moldy, but earthy and cool. It reminds me of the smell of forests in the Pacific Northwest, and oddly, water rides at Disneyland.

Carson and I got spooked, lurking underground. We walked to an amphitheater where they used to torture and kill people for sport while crowds gathered to watch on the surrounding hills. We walked through the arena’s underground tunnels.

Carson and I had lunch and a beer and took a train back to Frankfurt. We