ke I arrived at the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport at seven thirty in the morning on May 27, from whence I proceeded to take the Air France Bus to the Gare Austerlitz. Having arrived at the train station, I took the 91 bus which drops me off literally in front of my door.
I have always found that the best and most comprehensive Parisian buses all stop within a 3 block distance from my front door. There’s the 91, which connects you to all of the Parisian train stations: Austerlitz, Montparnasse (from where we take our yearly TGV train to the beautiful region of Brittany to visit my family in the good ol’ ancestral abode on the sea), and Lyons. That’s pretty convenient if you ask me. Then, there’s the 67, which runs to the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville (and drops me at the door of my favourite department store, BHV), Pigalle, and the Bohemian paradise of Montmartre. Finally, my favourite bus is the 27. The farthest away, it is by far the best, running to the Place Saint Michel, Notre Dame, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Jardin du Luxembourg. The best thing to do is to purchase un carnet, a package of reduced bus tickets, and to go wild. It’s fairly inexpensive, extremely efficient, pleasant, and scenic—everything that the New York bus system is not (hence why I don’t ride it).
However, I have gone into too much detail over my love of the Parisian bus system. I arrived chez moi, ready to collapse in a heap. My tante Eliane lives next door. Therefore, I was on my own for the first time in the petit studio. First thing, turn on the electric. Done. Turn on water. Okie dokie. Turn on the hot water. Hmm. How do I do that again? So after about 20 minutes trying to figure out how to turn on the hot water, I gave up and took a very cold and very refreshing shower. Tasty. Now to collapse. *Bring!* I pick up the phone, fearing that it’s Eliane, who likes to listen for me at the door. But no, it was Marie and Kempy asking whether I wanted to have breakfast.
“We’re at Montparnasse. How do we get to you?”
Heh heh, said I.
“You take the 91 bus and it drops you off in front of the door.”
Score. I salute you, Parisian bus system.
I hurriedly made myself look presentable, which is very difficult to do when one has not slept in about 24 hours, thinks that it’s 3 in the morning, was just dropped into a foreign country, and has to entertain ones friend’s abroad. I went out looking like a mole unhappy to see the light. It was also raining.
Breakfast was lovely and gloriously French.
“Kempy and I were thinking of going to the Musée d’Orsay. Would you like to come?”
I was feeling decent and wanted to spend time with my friends, so I agreed. We took the 27 bus (yesss) to the museum and waited on line in the rain for about half an hour. I felt faint. What I’ll do to peruse room upon room of expressionist art...anyway. We spent several hours in the museum, after which I felt like I was going to collapse. I also still had to go grocery shopping, unpack, and figure out how to turn on the hot water. I went home, ploughed through all of my chores, and died.
Please stay tuned forthe next and markedly more interesting and entertaining installment in my Parisian Spree chronicles.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Ooh la la! Parisian Spree, Part I
Thus begins the account of my Parisian adventure:
On Memorial Day 2008, I found myself aboard an American Airlines flight to the city of light—La Ville Lumiere. After a short sojourn in the Green Mountains of Vermont, I—like the migratory bird that I am—was to fly to Paris to visit my aged French aunt, Eliane, and also to celebrate the birthday of my best friend, Marie, in true style along the quais of the Seine. This was to be my first trip to Europe alone, as well as a true test of the quality of my language skills, considering that I would be unable to speak English for the majority of the trip.
Thus, my bag was carefully packed and checked, I was prepared with reading materials for the long flight ahead, and I anxiously awaited the beginning of my Parisian adventure.
Now, you would think that an American Airlines flight en route to Paris would be overrun with American tourists: Long-Guylanders off to see Paree, old fogies on grand tours of Europe (14 charming European countries in 10 days!), and unnaturally loud children armed with video games and travel gear. Not so; It turns out that the passengers were almost entirely French en vacances, that is, except for me and the crew.
Hmmm, an entirely French flight with an English-only-speaking crew and you have got a sitcom in the making. Case in point: apparently alcoholic drinks are no longer compris on the flight. Indeed, you can no longer enjoy a little bottle of wine with your pre-packaged food. Quel horreur! Needless to say, many Frenchies were obliged to whip out some cash to satisfy that familiar nightly craving. Ah, well. Ça c’est la vie.
Anyway, back to the flight. I found my seat with relative ease and apprehensively waited for the arrival of my neighbour for the flight. Would it be a tight-lipped French businessman? A quiet artiste? The handsome and charming French boy of my dreams? None of the above. Turns out that Travelocity paired me with my exact opposite. A young, Arab-looking man sat next to me and we sat in silence as we waited for the take-off. Suddenly, he turns to me. This might just have been one of the most interesting and, now, entertaining conversations of my life.
The following conversation was conducted in French and broken English. Lines stand for extremely long and awkward pauses in the conversation. He always initiates the conversation. It gets progressively more awkward as it goes along.
“So, you are French?”
“No, American. But my family is French.”
“From Paris?”
“No, from Brittany.”
“I am French—from Paris.” I did gather that you were French.
“Oh.”
“But I have been visiting my brother in Woodside. You know this?” Well, no.
“Yes.”
------------
“You have family in France?”
“Yes, my aunt lives in Paris. My uncle lives in Geneva.”
“And you are staying in France for how long?”
“Ten days.”
------------
“I have been to discotheques every night this week.”
“Oh?” Oh, Lord. He’s a party animal, is he?
“I got home at six in the morning today.”
“Oh my.” Gulp.
------------
“Do you work?”
“No, I am a student.”
“And what do you study?”
“I study English literature and French. I am thinking about doing my specialization in medieval studies.”
“How long will that take?”
“Three years.”
------------
“You speak very good French.”
“Thank you. I have been studying French for four years now.”
“I don’t like American girls.” Oh, good. My self esteem just shot up thirty points.
“Oh?”
“They’re strange.”
“Yes, they can be I suppose.”
“But you, you look French.”
“Well, my family is French.” Indeed.
“And your parents?”
“My mother is French. My father is German.”
“Ah.”
------------
“Do you meet good people in New York?”
“Yes, people are very nice.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived in New York?”
“All my life. I was born there.”
“So, you are English?” Hadn’t we determined this already?
“No, American.” As I said before.
“Yes, English.” Nooo.....
“Well, I am English as in from America. Not from Great Britain.”
------------
Now it gets awkward. The following remark was said in English.
“You are very white.”
Um, OK, then. “Umm, thank you.” How do you respond to that?
“When I was in New York, I didn’t see many white girls.” Pale? Fair? “You are the fourth blonde I have watched.” Wait, what?!? Let’s get this straight; confusing “to see” and “to watch” makes for some uncomfortable conversation.
“Ah...”
------------
“There are lots of blacks in New York.”
“Yes, we have people of all internationalities. Like Paris.”
“But you are very white.”
Hadn’t we determined that? Haven’t you been watching me?
“You look like a European girl.” Well, I am ethnically European.
“Thank you.” I guess.
------------
“Do a lot of people in New York speak Spanish?”
“Yes. English is becoming almost like a second language.”
“Do they speak what they speak in Spain?”
“No, it’s slightly different.”
With an air of finality and accusation, “It’s the Mexicans.”
------------
“Are you married?” Looking at my omnipresent claddagh ring.
“No.”
“Why do you wear that ring then? When we wear a ring there, it means we are married.” That is kind of international, no?
“Well, um. It’s the only finger it wouldn’t fall off of. It’s a Celtic symbol. If the heart is turned in, it means you are married.”
“Ah.”
------------
“How long is it since you have been in France?”
“A year.”
“And have you been to Spain?”
“Yes, I was there for two weeks.”
“Have you been everywhere?” Just slightly creepy.
“Certainly not.”
“Did you like the discotheques in Madrid?” Did I say I was in Madrid?
“I didn’t go.”
“No?!?” Is that such a surprise?
“No, not at all.” I am telling the truth.
“How strange...” Must I go to the discotheque?
------------
“What’s your name?”
“Sorry?” I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“What is your family name?”
“Metzler.”
“Metz-lair. Ah, nice to meet you! My name is Charles.” You said family name, silly!
------------
“Is anyone picking you up at the airport?” Lord, you’re some kind of sketch rapist. I am going to be molested and killed in a dark alleyway.
“No, I am taking the Air France Bus.”
------------
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Do you need to know this?
“No.”
“No?” Can’t you take “no” for an answer?
“No.” So there.
“So, you’re not getting it?” What?
“What?”
“So...you’re not getting any?” What the f#@k?!? How the hell, do you respond to something like that?
“Um.....no....um.” A-w-k-w-a-r-d.
“Hmm. No?” Don’t think you’re getting any, creeper.
“NO.”
And that was the last thing I said. This was all before take-off, which makes for a super-duper-awkward seven-and-a-half hours. I pretended to be asleep the entire time so that he wouldn’t talk to me. I did not sleep. I was not molested. I did not enjoy my dinner, which looked and tasted like tissues and paste. When the flight ended, I ran off the plane and bolted. Talk about an entrance. Bienvenue à Paris! *gulp*
On Memorial Day 2008, I found myself aboard an American Airlines flight to the city of light—La Ville Lumiere. After a short sojourn in the Green Mountains of Vermont, I—like the migratory bird that I am—was to fly to Paris to visit my aged French aunt, Eliane, and also to celebrate the birthday of my best friend, Marie, in true style along the quais of the Seine. This was to be my first trip to Europe alone, as well as a true test of the quality of my language skills, considering that I would be unable to speak English for the majority of the trip.
Thus, my bag was carefully packed and checked, I was prepared with reading materials for the long flight ahead, and I anxiously awaited the beginning of my Parisian adventure.
Now, you would think that an American Airlines flight en route to Paris would be overrun with American tourists: Long-Guylanders off to see Paree, old fogies on grand tours of Europe (14 charming European countries in 10 days!), and unnaturally loud children armed with video games and travel gear. Not so; It turns out that the passengers were almost entirely French en vacances, that is, except for me and the crew.
Hmmm, an entirely French flight with an English-only-speaking crew and you have got a sitcom in the making. Case in point: apparently alcoholic drinks are no longer compris on the flight. Indeed, you can no longer enjoy a little bottle of wine with your pre-packaged food. Quel horreur! Needless to say, many Frenchies were obliged to whip out some cash to satisfy that familiar nightly craving. Ah, well. Ça c’est la vie.
Anyway, back to the flight. I found my seat with relative ease and apprehensively waited for the arrival of my neighbour for the flight. Would it be a tight-lipped French businessman? A quiet artiste? The handsome and charming French boy of my dreams? None of the above. Turns out that Travelocity paired me with my exact opposite. A young, Arab-looking man sat next to me and we sat in silence as we waited for the take-off. Suddenly, he turns to me. This might just have been one of the most interesting and, now, entertaining conversations of my life.
The following conversation was conducted in French and broken English. Lines stand for extremely long and awkward pauses in the conversation. He always initiates the conversation. It gets progressively more awkward as it goes along.
“So, you are French?”
“No, American. But my family is French.”
“From Paris?”
“No, from Brittany.”
“I am French—from Paris.” I did gather that you were French.
“Oh.”
“But I have been visiting my brother in Woodside. You know this?” Well, no.
“Yes.”
------------
“You have family in France?”
“Yes, my aunt lives in Paris. My uncle lives in Geneva.”
“And you are staying in France for how long?”
“Ten days.”
------------
“I have been to discotheques every night this week.”
“Oh?” Oh, Lord. He’s a party animal, is he?
“I got home at six in the morning today.”
“Oh my.” Gulp.
------------
“Do you work?”
“No, I am a student.”
“And what do you study?”
“I study English literature and French. I am thinking about doing my specialization in medieval studies.”
“How long will that take?”
“Three years.”
------------
“You speak very good French.”
“Thank you. I have been studying French for four years now.”
“I don’t like American girls.” Oh, good. My self esteem just shot up thirty points.
“Oh?”
“They’re strange.”
“Yes, they can be I suppose.”
“But you, you look French.”
“Well, my family is French.” Indeed.
“And your parents?”
“My mother is French. My father is German.”
“Ah.”
------------
“Do you meet good people in New York?”
“Yes, people are very nice.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived in New York?”
“All my life. I was born there.”
“So, you are English?” Hadn’t we determined this already?
“No, American.” As I said before.
“Yes, English.” Nooo.....
“Well, I am English as in from America. Not from Great Britain.”
------------
Now it gets awkward. The following remark was said in English.
“You are very white.”
Um, OK, then. “Umm, thank you.” How do you respond to that?
“When I was in New York, I didn’t see many white girls.” Pale? Fair? “You are the fourth blonde I have watched.” Wait, what?!? Let’s get this straight; confusing “to see” and “to watch” makes for some uncomfortable conversation.
“Ah...”
------------
“There are lots of blacks in New York.”
“Yes, we have people of all internationalities. Like Paris.”
“But you are very white.”
Hadn’t we determined that? Haven’t you been watching me?
“You look like a European girl.” Well, I am ethnically European.
“Thank you.” I guess.
------------
“Do a lot of people in New York speak Spanish?”
“Yes. English is becoming almost like a second language.”
“Do they speak what they speak in Spain?”
“No, it’s slightly different.”
With an air of finality and accusation, “It’s the Mexicans.”
------------
“Are you married?” Looking at my omnipresent claddagh ring.
“No.”
“Why do you wear that ring then? When we wear a ring there, it means we are married.” That is kind of international, no?
“Well, um. It’s the only finger it wouldn’t fall off of. It’s a Celtic symbol. If the heart is turned in, it means you are married.”
“Ah.”
------------
“How long is it since you have been in France?”
“A year.”
“And have you been to Spain?”
“Yes, I was there for two weeks.”
“Have you been everywhere?” Just slightly creepy.
“Certainly not.”
“Did you like the discotheques in Madrid?” Did I say I was in Madrid?
“I didn’t go.”
“No?!?” Is that such a surprise?
“No, not at all.” I am telling the truth.
“How strange...” Must I go to the discotheque?
------------
“What’s your name?”
“Sorry?” I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“What is your family name?”
“Metzler.”
“Metz-lair. Ah, nice to meet you! My name is Charles.” You said family name, silly!
------------
“Is anyone picking you up at the airport?” Lord, you’re some kind of sketch rapist. I am going to be molested and killed in a dark alleyway.
“No, I am taking the Air France Bus.”
------------
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Do you need to know this?
“No.”
“No?” Can’t you take “no” for an answer?
“No.” So there.
“So, you’re not getting it?” What?
“What?”
“So...you’re not getting any?” What the f#@k?!? How the hell, do you respond to something like that?
“Um.....no....um.” A-w-k-w-a-r-d.
“Hmm. No?” Don’t think you’re getting any, creeper.
“NO.”
And that was the last thing I said. This was all before take-off, which makes for a super-duper-awkward seven-and-a-half hours. I pretended to be asleep the entire time so that he wouldn’t talk to me. I did not sleep. I was not molested. I did not enjoy my dinner, which looked and tasted like tissues and paste. When the flight ended, I ran off the plane and bolted. Talk about an entrance. Bienvenue à Paris! *gulp*
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