The carriage brought us back into Paris and to a train station, and from there we journeyed to a seaport in the far North of France. The train ride wasn't long, but it was enough time for me to wallow even deeper in my misery at leaving Christine. I tried to cheer myself up, reminding me that this had practically been my life's goal since I could walk and talk and learn. I was finally going somewhere; I was going on an adventure! But the thrill of that wasn't enough. Christine was an adventure enough for me.
But I didn't complain or sit and look miserable, at least: I put on a cheery face for my family; especially my parents, since they were the ones who'd finally allowed me the great privilege of travel. They were excited enough themselves, too: it was the first time they'd been able to do this since Philipe was born; about fifteen years ago.
We got off the train and almost straight onto the ship we were to take from France to Sweden. Our final destination would be Russia, and Sweden was the farthest the ship would go (besides, the channel of water got too narrow after that, and was only fit for smaller ships). Once in Sweden we would travel to Stockholm, to visit and pick up any supplies we might need, and then we'd sail through the Baltic sea and finally to Russia.
The ship, in short, was a much longer version of that train ride: there was nothing to do except think. Out at sea one was left only with their thoughts and their feelings…and for me, both parts desired one thing only.
To wile away the time, Philipe and I would play complicated games of hide-and-seek throughout the ship and all the cabins: complicated because of the size of the great ship. Sometimes one game would last all day; I remember one time I hid in the sailors' kitchen and he never found me until one of the sailors discovered me and brought me up to dinner. It was silly and childish, the way we'd run around, and ask the other passengers if they'd seen the other or say that the other was lost, and engage them in the game too—but it did cheer me up a little, and it kept my mind off Christine (until I thought of how much fun it would be if she were here to play, too!).
We grew tired of the game after a while, and set about trying to help the crew man the boat. They were friendly, us being eager young boys desperate to work like men, and sent us off on little missions such as fetching ropes or sheets from various places on the boat. I realized later that these were probably just tasks to keep us busy and safe, and out of their hair so we wouldn't bother them—but they were kind, and I didn't mind doing the little jobs: it made me feel grown-up and responsible, and like the kind of swashbuckling buccaneer Christine and I had encountered in the books we read while I was at her house. While that thought made me miss her, I felt proud of doing it 'for her', and it was something to tell her when I returned home to her again.
After days of travel (which, to me, as a young, restless child, seemed an eternity), Sweden finally came dimly into view one foggy morning, and it wasn't long until we reached shore and disembarked.
For a few moments, all thoughts of Christine were washed from my mind by the sea we'd sailed through, and the thrill of adventure returned to me. This was what I'd wanted to travel for: the thrill of going somewhere new; the adventure of not knowing quite what would happen; the experiences that turned into stories to tell to awestruck friends once home again.
The place where we'd landed was more or less in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest town eleven miles away and also incredibly small. We had to go there in order to catch a train across to Stockholm, and the sight of it was an enormous shock to me: it was as different from Paris as black was from white. The streets were merely dirt paths, and the largest 'shop' there was the grain store. I couldn't believe anyone could actually live there and still be alive: they were like peasants out of a history book!
I voiced this aloud to my mother, who turned on me in annoyance.
"That's not nice, they're not peasants—this is just their lifestyle," she said sternly, and in a hushed voice, looking about as though she feared one of the 'peasants' might hear her. "You must get used to how not everyone lives like we do, in Paris. There are different cultures all around us; you mustn't insult them if you find them strange and different—and you shouldn't look down on those who don't have the money to live decent lifestyles."
At her words I felt a little ashamed of myself—but I just couldn't understand how exactly people lived if they didn't live like, well, me. I just couldn't grasp the concept of a miserable life. I knew it was shallow and stupid—but for me, the world was perfect. It was, as it is said, my oyster: I was rich and had a good family, and so the whole world was laid out before my feet. So I couldn't quite understand what it was like to be poor, or disliked, or shunned from society in some way—whether it was by distance, like this little town; or out of hatred, like the criminals I heard about who were always in the papers.
We didn't have long to wait before we boarded the train. The railway was a small one, and we were nearly the only ones on it: not many from the ship were traveling on to Sweden, and some who did were traveling somewhere other than Stockholm.
The ride wasn't too much longer than the one from Paris to the seaport, but still rather dull—that is, until the fog cleared, and we had the opportunity of watching the foreign scenery fly by.
I'd never really been anywhere but Paris, and the province of our beach house—so seeing so many different changes of scenery at once was overwhelming. First a journey at sea; then thrust into a completely different culture, and now…the countryside! Amazing as it sounds, I'd never seen true country. Paris is as urban a city you can ask for, and even our short ride from the city to the beach only passes through what seems a suburb of Paris. But this…it was my first time seeing nature this wild. Well, not wild—one could see the traces of farmers and their landwork, but most of it was untouched outdoor beauty, which fascinated me even more than the sea. Our voyage by ship had been exciting enough, but it was all the same after a while—cloudy skies, clouded blueish water—it had seemed almost endless. But now, as we danced past trees and meadows and fields of wildflowers, I realized how much of the world I had yet to see; how much time I'd wasted being sheltered at home in the city, all the while thinking I was an adventurous little boy by going to the shops on my own, or dipping in the water a bit to save a scarf…
Once more I felt the familiar pang in my heart as I thought of Christine, for the millionth time. How she would love to see this—not only was it an adventure, but it was like a fairy-tale adventure—her specialty. I smiled to myself as I thought this. How she would love to be watching this, like some magical vision or dream…for that's what it was to me. That's what adventure is, anyway, isn't it? It's just a vision, just a dream…then you wake up and you're back home; and while you dwell on it for a while, it doesn't completely affect you, because you didn't stay wherever you were—you came home in the end, and ended the dream…
I started as the train pulled to a halt and let out steam in a long, high-pitched shriek. I saw passengers through the window getting off our very train.
"Come, Raoul!" my father beckoned from the door of the little train compartment. "We're here!"
How long had I been daydreaming? I wondered, snatching up my little pack (my mother and father were managing the larger suitcases, since I wasn't quite big enough to carry my own yet) and hurrying down the steps. The second I jumped down to the platform, it seemed, the train took right off again, gathering speed as it screeched away.
"Where is it going now, Papa?" I asked my father, looking up at him.
He was only staring off after the train, watching it slowly fade from view.
"Who knows?" he said, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the train had finally disappeared completely. "Who knows?"
I might have asked him where we were going, for all he was paying attention to my questions, and he might have given him the same answer. I realized that that was where my love for adventure came from: my father was living in the same dazed dream.
Perhaps it's like that with all fathers, I though to myself, thinking (once again) of Christine and her own father. Her father believed in those tales…her father lost himself in music…that's why Christine's done the same.
It was almost frightening, how much influence parents had over their children.
After a moment we heard my mother's voice.
"There's a carriage waiting! Come along!"
We made our way out of the train station and to the waiting carriage, as my mother had promised. We were still slightly in the countryside of Sweden, but after a few minutes in the carriage, the faint outline of buildings, with a cloud of smoke hovering just over them, came into view.
"Where's that?" Philipe asked curiously, echoing my thoughts.
"Stockholm," both my parents replied.
Stockholm!
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