Mumbling Madly

The driver of the van should have driven down the cobble stone alleyway and dropped me in front of #17 (not to be confused with #17bis). Instead he dropped me off at the edge of the alley, blocking a large truck, inciting angry honking and scooters to jump up on the curb and go around. I hastily gave the man 29 euro–which was dumb because the shuttle company had my visa and was going to charge me. I suppose I reverted to my CO days when I used to take the shuttle back from the airport and then pay upon arrival. I had no idea.

What I did know is that I lost my yellow piece of paper. You see, my parents had called the morning of my flight to Paris and my father had given me detailed instructions: “The apartment is located in the alley, do not go to #17bis–we did that and it took forever to figure it out–and when you locate the door you have enter this secret code (are you writing this down? Here’s the code…). Pull on the door when you hear the buzzer and then walk up the winding staircase three flights. We should hear you and get the door, but if we don’t, the apartment has three locks on it. All of this is on the itinerary I gave you. There is no apartment number so just remember: three locks, three flights.” I scribbled all of this down on a small piece of yellow paper and packed it…where? I didn’t know…I fumbled in my overstuffed backpack, I checked my money belt, I rechecked my backpack, I searched and searched. I was in the entryway of the alley, my suitcase propped up on the cobblestone, feeling more and more frantic. I was so close but so far away! I tried to call the apartment from my cell phone but I got a recorded message in French and the call didn’t go through–shit! (I dialed as if I was still in the states, it’s an American phone, right? Shouldn’t I dial as if I’m from the states?) Finally, I found an itinerary with the apartment information on it. I hauled my suitcase over the cobblestones and looked at the numbers on the alleyway doors. I picked one and dialed the code…crap, it didn’t work. Oh, wait this is #17bis…I need #17. The door buzzed…I was ecstatic!

My parents had coffee, a baguette, and chocolate croissants waiting for me. The apartment was small, painted bright white, and decorated entirely in Ikea. I plopped down on a vaguely familiar Ikea chair and chowed while telling my parents about my flight, Flavia the chihuahua, and my adventures in the airport shuttle. I was surprisingly coherent so we hit the streets. Mom and Dad showed me the little bakery where they’d been getting food for lunch:

My stream of consciousness started to slow down as the enormity of my travels began. I started thinking (and writing) in short little bursts: We bought narrow sandwiches that they flattened on a grill (my Mom called them “smooshed sandwiches”). The French don’t provide plastic bags for goods–people are expected to bring their own or carry their groceries in their hands. People don’t take their coffee in paper cups, instead they pause to sip their espresso out of tiny ceramic cups on the patio with a cigarette. They charge you more if you sit down in a restaurant–I think the extra goes to the server so you don’t have to worry about a tip. Everyone wears scarves, boots or fashion sneakers. The Eiffel tower is massive and beautiful and just as impressive as you would think. The walk signals are different: a little red man or a little walking green man instead. I am reminded of New York as the lights change and the people surge onto the streets, a hungry mass of industry and haste. And this is only the first day!

That afternoon, I found myself lying on my parent’s bed in the apartment with a very genuine thought: I’m just going to rest my eyelids. I knew that I must push through, but I was desperate. I forced myself awake in one hour. We went out to dinner and the server patiently listened to my father’s French–he tried to slip in a few English words, but honored the fact that my Dad was making an attempt. I wasn’t hungry at all–a side effect from the jet lag I assume–but I ordered a salad decorated with vegetables and hummus. We picked out a single decadent pastry on the way home and split it three ways. Sleep came swiftly as I relished the feeling of lying down on my Ikea fold-out couch.

I was told the best thing about international airlines is their freedom with alcohol. Folks made it sound like there would be champaign fountains and four course meals. My Air France flight began at 2pm on Sunday and ended 9 hours later at 9am, Monday, France time. I was terribly nervous, as I’ve mentioned before, since the longest flight I’d endured to date was a 6 hour return trip from NYC–6 hrs is a long time, but 9? Would 9 be the breaking point? I packed my old college backpack heavy with stuff to entertain me on the off chance I would be twiddling my thumbs and, oh, not sleeping.

I arrived two hours early and it took me only 20 minutes to check my bag and go through security. Wow. I messed around in the Duty Free Store, sampled lip gloss, and admired the new international wing of the airport I’d never been in before. A woman and her adult daughter were doing yoga at the gate; ‘what a good idea,’ I thought to myself. I started doing a few stretches myself until I realized the entire French flight crew were sitting in a corner snickering. Or at least, I think they were…it was hard to tell with their hoity toity French. I noticed how well-coiffed the entire staff was, the women wearing tasteful make-up and their hair in chignons. The announcements about our flight were made in French and then English.

I sat in my little aisle seat for a long time with the hope that maybe no one would sit next to me. Then a short little man showed up with a dog carrier. I peeked inside and saw a shivering little chihuahua. Oh God. Now, I’ll be totally honest: I hate chihuahuas. I don’t think they’re cute, I think they’re disturbing with their buggy little eyes, mean little yaps, and celebrity appeal. I’ve been influenced largely by the nasty pair that bark at me every time I step into my backyard and into my car. What are the odds that I would spend my first international flight next to one? The owner squeezed into the window seat only to realize an odd little black box attached to the bottom of the seat was causing a shortage of leg room. His dog cage wouldn’t fit so he asked if we could trade. Now, most people prefer the window seat, but I really like the aisle for one main reason: easy bathroom access. With a 9 hour flight impending my bladder immediately seized at the thought of tapping this man on the shoulder every time I need to use the can. It didn’t help that when the stewards weren’t looking he pulled his dog out of its cage and sat her on his lap.

The chihuahua’s name was Flavia (Flah-via) and she was a seasoned traveler. She and her owner (I never got his name) were headed to Barcelona. The man had an unplaceable accent, stunk of stale cigarettes, and had unusual scars on his tanned face. “I would never travel with her if she was difficult,” he assured me. “She is wildly obsessed with me, we go everywhere together.” He showed me a little black dog dress with a black and white gingham collar that he had stuffed in the pocket of the airline seat. “How very Audrey Hepburn,” I heard myself saying. I asked a few polite questions and received one piece of valuable information: “In a few hours the sun will disappear and they will put us to sleep. A few hours before our flight lands they will wake us up and serve breakfast. The flight will go fast.”

I was so nervous that I couldn’t take advantage of the free drinks–mimosas, red or white wine, mixed drinks, they had it all. This made up for Air France’s shoddiness: my tray jiggled, our seats were worn, and my cup holder was broken. But there were neat little TV screens embedded in each seat with several movies running on loops, (I watched “Enchanted” and “Juno”). I took Pamela’s advice and knocked back some Advil pm after our meal in the hopes of passing out and waking up when we landed. I had no such luck. Sure, it was more comfortable leaning my head against the side of the plane, but I felt like I was at some sort of bizarre slumber party. All around me people were shifting under their airline blankets, snoring lightly, and wearing the complimentary Air France eye masks. My seat mate’s cigarette breath seemed to waft into my nostrils and rouse me every few minutes. I could hear Flavia shuffling in her owner’s lap, nestled under her special blanket with the dog bones printed on it. At one point she put her snout on my arm and made me jump. All my extra effort to not to touch or smell my neighbor made any real sleep very difficult. After two hours I gave up and rewatched “Enchanted” while the night sky slowly lightened.

I groggily ate my breakfast of yogurt and a baguette (a substantial improvement over the dark meat drowned in butter they served for dinner). I accepted coffee and juice. I even petted Flavia a little bit. We flew through the dark rain clouds of France and when we pushed through I gasped at my first sight of a foreign land. Tiny little cars criss-crossed the highway–and by tiny I mean they were almost all Smart Cars. My mind lapsed back to an NPR special: “Conservatives will do anything to avoid living like Europeans: $7.00 gas, tolls to enter cities, and driving tiny cars.” I sucked in the view, everything French, on the other side of the world, wow! In my excitement I found myself enthusiastically scratching Flavia behind the ears.

I made my way to baggage claim, which was odd and didn’t look like it was suppose to. The bags came out of a hole in the wall and the conveyor belt moved along the wall’s perimeter until disappearing into another hole. Luckily, my bag came right away. I found a pay phone, called Airport Express shuttle’s toll free number, stumbled when the man answered in French. “Hello?” I asked uncertainly. He switched to English immediately, “Go to Exit 8 for the shuttle.” After consulting a map for a long time I found Exit 8. I saw no signs for Airport Express just a lot of people smoking (France’s indoor smoking ban went into effect only in January). Was I in the right place? It was freezing and I was wearing this dorky rain coat I picked up at the Rack for too much money (I’m returning it today). I went back inside. I asked someone at the Security desk, “Parlevous Anglais?” She looked annoyed and said “a little” in French. I said, “Airport Express?” She gave me a blank stare. I pointed at my itinerary. She took my paper and looked it over. I had written Exit 8 on it hastily; she pointed at Exit 8 on the paper and then at the exit. “I know, but it’s not out there,” I struggled to explain. She gestured wildly. “It’s on the other side?” I ventured. She nodded, but I think she just wanted to get rid of me. I tried hard not to lose it. I called from another pay phone. “Go back outside, we’ll get you in five minutes.”

This time, a shuttle pulled up and the driver picked me out immediately from the crowd. My nervous voice on the phone must have matched me physically. I was relieved and slid into the backseat. A well dressed woman in her 40’s said, “Another American? Where are you from?!” I said ‘Seattle’ and she said ‘LA.’ She tried talking to me but I was so tired I just wanted to zone out. A group of loud South Africans joined us in the backseat. “BONJOUR,” they shouted at us before launching into a huge conversation in a language I couldn’t understand; their hands waving around, two women and one man. I’m sure they weren’t all that obnoxious but it felt really jarring in my jet-lagged state.

We hit the highway: cargo trucks and a million Smart Cars lined up for miles as we approached Paris’ rush hour. I recognized the outskirts of the city, the less attractive parts with its huge subsidized housing complexes and exotic French graffiti. The South Africans droned on and on, my stomach doing little flip flops, and the woman from LA kept trying to engage me in conversation (“Do you keep up with politics?” “Hillary or Obama?” “Do you agree the Americans have screwed themselves because of their terrible war?” I wanted to say, “Look lady, you may live in France but you claim you’re an American citizen: it’s your goddam war too.”). We reached the city and a huge round-about introduced me to my first glimpse of French sculpture, elegant pedestrians, and several near accidents in our shuttle.

I had arrived.

I wanted to go to Europe for so long that it had reached the point of wistfulness. All around me in my 20’s if you were artistic, young, and slightly adventurous you scraped up the money and found a way to go. Friend after friend regaled me with their tales of schlepping across Europe with nothing but their backpack, passport, and stinky socks. It got to the point where I would greet these tales with excitement but secretly, envy would cloud my listening ears.

When I first moved to Fort Collins, CO I was certain that this was merely a passing stop, a way to put off the inevitable outcome of my resounding fame, fortune, and success. I hadn’t truly been on my own for long and Josh and I were still capable of bouncing from place to place, packing up the Montero, gassing up and going. I diligently collected coins in my waitressing apron, stashing them away in a jar and cashing them into my bank account every month. This was my travel money, my Italy money, my destiny. I researched all sorts of travel abroad programs, would I be a courier? Would I do work study? Would I do it intellectually, through a school program? (No matter that I wasn’t currently enrolled in anything). It seemed that there was plenty of exploitive, dig ditches type of work in Europe for someone in the 18-25 range. Sure you had to pay your own airfare, but then the organization would give you a cot to sleep on and maybe some food!

I saved over a thousand dollars and right when I was getting ready to just do it, go to Europe alone via a work program, my car’s brakes started making horrible noises. Mind you, this was a 85′ Volkswagon Quantum that I had purchased for $500 in the mountains. I used this car a lot, because Fort Collins had virtually no public transportation. I remember I was a mentor for the county, driving this at-risk 9 year old girl around town and my car was this hideous death trap. It was then that I had to make a decision: ditch the car, my cat, my boyfriend and head off to Europe? Or use my travel money to buy a new car so I continue to make money, pay the rent, pay the bills, and buy cat food. Sadly, I chose the grown up route and replaced my car with a used Suburu that had failed the emissions test and was a steal at $1200, (using my out-of-town driver’s license to skirt the mandatory emissions testing that Fort Collins required for licensing).

The window of opportunity was lost. And I mean that it was a time of decadence, a time of having very little worries financially (it was easy when you’re poor), a time when I didn’t really think about my future in any serious sense (what’s retirement?), and I had this great boyfriend but we weren’t, like, really serious (I’m never getting married). It was one of those windows where every sign points you to Europe, an adventure, a risk. And I didn’t take it…my life become more and more responsible, making frivolous financial decisions impossible with my fiance’ back in college, my performance career taking off again in a tiny college town that needed committed performers, and the rent always increasing as my standard of living grew higher.

So I was resigned to listening to everyone else’s travel abroad stories and feeling really jealous. I simply did not know how I was ever going to Europe, but I knew that I had to in my life time–preferably sooner or later. I had this horrible feeling that I would end up waiting until I was 65, puttering around on a cruise or a senior citizen tour to Europe–which was ok! I just wanted the experience of going when I was young, able to buy the latest fashions and feel a little sophisticated drinking espresso in a tiny cafe. Ok, so it was vanity…but I really wanted to go. Some people feel as if they can live their whole life wallowing in the comforts of America, pleased at our freedom and unabashed patriotism. I just had this feeling that Europe would really like me: we’re both environmental, we both like good food, and we both have slight disdain for over sized novelty coffee beverages.

And then my sister went to Europe, doing the exact same thing I wanted to do when I was her age (22)–taking off, wearing a backpack, schlepping from train to train. It was really hard and she learned a lot and saw some amazing things. However, I know that I am not that sort of traveler (I don’t know if I ever was). My parents made noises about wanting to go and I solicited them at every chance. Wouldn’t it be fun if we went together? Wouldn’t it be great if we could pitch in on a hotel instead of a hostel? Didn’t they understand that at some point I’ve got to start having kids and my European dreams will be put on hold? I also knew how easy it would be, showing up in Europe with the trusted guise of my father’s language skills and competent map reading; my mother’s calm practicality and responsibility. I admit: it wasn’t as exotic as taking off in my 20’s with nothing but luck, my youthfulness, and a limited amount of money. However, I jumped at the chance to go when my Dad said they were finally looking at plane tickets.

I was really nervous. Everyone who spoke to me about it knew I was really scared about traveling alone and meeting up with my folks in Paris. It seems really ridiculous how soft I’ve become. For 9 years I’ve had Josh as my consistent travel partner–sure there have been plenty of times when I’ve traveled without him but it’s always been to trusted locations like Seattle or Portland. Together we’ve conquered the likes of Rabbit Valley, (Utah), El Paso, Kansas City, and the lusciously easy Maui. We’ve driven from CO to WA three times. We’re good travel partners–which should be a prerequisite for any marriage.

I knew I would have the safety of my family when I arrived, but all this paranoid stuff about flying kept creeping up (what if we fell out of they sky?), my inability to speak any French, and this pesty business with my nervous bladder. It got to the point I almost dreaded the enormity of the trip. Josh kept asking me, ‘are you excited?’ and I would answer honestly, ‘no, I’m nervous.’ I barely mentioned my trip at all, only inquiring from other travelers what to expect, pack, and see in France. I wanted magic solutions to expected jet lag, language barriers, and homesickness. I wanted to get to Paris in the same capacity as Star-Trek beams its crew members to their destination or Dr. Who steps into the Tardis. However, I know the reward of getting to one side of the world from the other is the process of simply going. You appreciate the Louvre that much more when you endured a 9 hour flight next to a man who held his Chihuahua in his lap the entire time.

Thus, the next few blog entries will be dedicated entirely to my trip to France…stay tuned.