Day 9 -- Wednesday, September 28, 2005
No sleeping pills + noisy hotel = no sleep for Daphne.
Why didn’t I bring more pills? I used up my supply of pharmaceutical bliss the night before and it didn’t even occur to me to buy any more while we were out. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I tossed and turned on the futon from hell for about an hour while the ladies read. Feeling supremely uncomfortable and frustrated, I finally gave up the ghost and got dressed. It was only around 11:00 and we had planned on getting up at 5:30 to get to the airport. It was going to be a looooooong night.
I took my magazine and the room key and headed for the landing between the lobby and the rooms. I sat there for about half an hour before realizing that it was just too cold without my jacket. I trudged up the 4 brutal flights of stairs, tried (unsuccessfully) to get the door open in the dark without disturbing anyone, got my jacket and went back downstairs. I sat some more until my butt was completely numb and prompted me to get up and stretch my legs.
2:00 am. I go down to the cyber café and find the desk clerk, in casual clothes, sitting behind a computer. “Can’t sleep?” he asks. “Nope.” “Want a cappuccino?” Glad for the hospitality but a little confused (a massive infusion of caffeine is supposed to help me sleep?), I say no and cop a squat at a chair on the other side of the room. I’m reading and all is going as well as it can be until the typical Frenchman behind me decides to light up. I’m already tired and cranky. The last thing I need is a case of Parisian emphysema. I get up to find another spot for my insomnia.
Damn this country to hell!
4:00 am. After wandering into the empty dining room attached to the lobby (the TV was still blaring a western even though no one was watching) I find myself back on my bench on the landing. I’ve been nodding off for hours now but every time my head droops too far forward, I wake up again. Nice way to spend my last night in Paris.
5:25 am. I’ve been watching the clock for hours now and the last few minutes have been the hardest. I can’t wait any longer. I drag myself up the stairs and sit outside of the door to our room. I’m trying my best to allow the ladies as much sleep as I can but … I REALLY NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS HOTEL.
“Up and at ‘em, ladies! Time to hustle.” Joy is decidedly not happy to have me turning on lights and urging her up before the alarm goes off. But we do have a couple of planes to catch. While they are trying to adjust to cruel consciousness, I check the room for the last of my things and start hauling my crap back down those hideous stairs. By the time they’re up and moving their suitcases to the lobby, I’m already sitting back on my bench waiting for them. Joy does the checkout thing just as our cab pulls up. After the longest night in recorded history, we are on our way back to Charles De Gaulle ...
... where the waiting continues. We’re at the airport so early because Joy’s flight to India is before ours. We part with Joy and then try to find out which gate we need … which we can’t do because it’s too early. The departure screens haven’t updated with our information yet. Aletha parks herself while I hunt for some grub. We have at least an hour wait near the ticketing booth before we learn our gate number. Now all we have to do is find it.
Easier said than done which leads me back to my tip from way back on day one: NEVER GO TO CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT. See, it had lured us into a false sense of security when we flew in from London but now it was back to its old tricks. Our gate was located down a series of winding halls and confusing signs. When we finally get to the gate, after waiting there for several more hours, the staff don’t quite know how to get us to the plane. We all line up at the ticket booth (the terminal had gotten very crowded by this point) so they can check us in and get us onto (God help us) a bus. But here’s the problem: there are too many people and not enough buses. Now, shouldn’t they have known beforehand how many people were going to get on the plane so they could plan accordingly? Aletha and I just look at each other and roll our eyes.
We miss the first two buses and have to wait for a third. As we worriedly look at the clock, we are told that the plane will not leave without us. This time when we get on the bus, we actually have some breathing space. The trip takes about ten minutes and then we meet the plane on the runway. But Charles De Gaulle is not done with us yet. Several of the passengers are questioned about their carryon luggage. They are asked if they want to check some at the plane before getting on board. Aletha and I ignore them and climb on board.
And now, a suggestion. If you decide to go to Paris (which I highly recommend), do something, anything to avoid this airport. Try something different; try flying into nearby Bordeaux and taking the train into Paris. Doesn’t that sound romantic? You’ll get to watch the French countryside fly by while you’re on your way to the city of lights. Just heed my warning: save yourself the stress and aggravation by staying away from Charles De Gaulle.
Aletha and I part as we get on the plane as she is sitting way in the back. I pass through the amazingly roomy first class and find my seat. Hurrah! I have a window seat in the first row after the partition that separates the sardines from the people who actually have money. This means: no one lying in my lap for the whole flight and a blessed amount of leg room. I am thrilled as I settle my stuff down. After being up all night, I’m ready for several hours of blissful sleep.
Then I find out who will be sitting next to me: a woman and her infant.
“Lord, why you gonna do me like that?” I spend the next few minutes just fussing with God. He knows that I haven’t gotten much rest during my entire stay in Paris. What’d I ever to do Him (other than being a heathen, of course)?
But, to the mother’s credit, the kid wasn’t much trouble. She sat next to me and occasionally touched me but other than that she was really quiet. Thank goodness. I was finally able to get some sleep. It almost made me weep with joy.
A few hours later I was awakened by the food cart. The flight had two meals and drink service so I manage to stay awake for the rest of the flight. The row I sat in, since there were no chairs in front of it, had retractable TVs that came out of the arms. Cool. There was an Angelina Jolie double feature of Mr. And Mrs. Smith (I’d already seen it and didn’t like it the first time) and Lara Croft. I ate my vegetarian pizza snack while half-asleep.
Deplaning back in the good old USA, I proudly told Aletha that I finally got some sleep. She tells me that she didn’t get any, instead staying up to watch movies. We claim our bags and then have to give them up again as we go through customs. Loopy, but okay. We found Aletha’s car, split the parking bill and headed back to Joy’s.
It was strange being behind the wheel of a car after a whole week. Oddly enough, I did not miss driving. I did miss the tube though. That was fun. The whole trip was amazing and as I drove back to fair Woodstock, I still couldn’t believe that it had happened.
I had to pick up my dog and cat from the vet and, once I recovered from the heart attack over seeing that bill, drove home and unpacked all my goodies. I am thrilled to report that the tea set I bought in London survived the plane ride (I still haven’t mounted it to the wall yet but I will eventually get around to it). I dug out the tea, postcards, souvenirs, and my lovely new backpack and just basked in the memories in the few short hours I had before returning to the daily routine.
Thanks to Europe I have picked up a serious tea habit and an overwhelming desire to return. All things I hope you all will get a chance to experience. Hope you enjoyed this overly long account of my adventures.
Friday, January 13, 2006
L&P Day 8
Day 8 -- Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Traveler’s Tip #8: definitely take sleeping pills on any overseas trips. Thanks to those little blue pills I was able to ignore the noises of clicking heels, nicotine-soaked French voices, and garbage trucks and give in to overwhelming fatigue by sleeping it off. Woke up this morning almost refreshed and ready to start the day.
The ladies seemed to sleep better as well since they were still conked out when I woke up. I got dressed and slipped out the door so as not to disturb them. It’s yet another beautiful morning when I go on walkabout. Nothing major, just walking up the streets near our hotel. Few of the stores were open at this hour so I just window-shopped. There was a lot of construction along the streets which I really don’t understand. These streets are already so narrow. To have them cut off by scaffolding and machinery makes the congestion look impossible. I can fully understand why Paris is such a big city for walking. After about a half hour, I figure I’d better get back. I didn’t leave a note and I didn’t want the ladies to wonder where I’d gone.
When I get back, the ladies are negotiating getting dressed in the tiny room and formulating our game plan. Since we’d already hit the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d’Triompe and Notre Dame, we decide to play it by ear; shopping and then a little tour of the Latin Quarter, ending with a visit to a chapel. But first, breakfast. Stopping at yet another little café, Joy, Aletha and I manage to get a smoke-free meal. I had an excellent ham and cheese omelet and some tea. Joy had ordered French fries with her meal which I thought was unusual in that it was breakfast time and because the café actually served it that early. But … they sure were looking good. The serving was enormous so when Joy started to slow down, she let me take over. Let me tell you, I craved that breakfast for weeks afterwards. Nothing says French like a ham and cheese omelet, tea, and French fries :-).
Paris is full of little streets lined with shops. We decided to take a tour of the places we could actually afford. Checked out a bunch of jewelry places that sold both finished pieces and loose stones, then we hit a pashmina place, a book/game store, and some others. One of those stores was the French version of Lecter’s, my dearly departed favorite kitchen supply place. The store had lots of funky decorations and souvenirs for kitchen and bath located on two floors that were filled with tourists and natives alike.
We shopped for our last souvenirs of Paris in the many stores geared for just this purpose. Lots of t-shirts from the cute to the profane, nick knacks like pens and magnets, and the Eiffel Tower in more forms than you could possibly imagine. There was also, I was amused to note, quite a bit of items with naked people on them to be purchased. I got a set of playing cards with some rather happy nekkid mens on them and this interesting little wooden dice for the adventuresome couple to play with. So, okay, I’m not part of a couple but that doesn’t mean I can’t plan ahead. Where better to do this than in the city of love?
Joy leads us into one or two luggage stores as well. She’s in the market for a new purse so Aletha and I get sucked into the fun. Joy bought two bags in one store while I found myself tempted by a neat brown leather-like backpack thingy that will nicely replace my disintegrating bag from Target. Aletha decides she’ll be good and not spend any money.
As we leave one of these souvenir stores, I pass a display filled with weapons of wicked destruction. I’ve always wanted to start a knife and sword collection (not necessarily for their protective qualities but just because they look cool) so I take a good look at some throwing stars. Before I can even figure out how to pack them and take them on the plane, Joy physically moves me out the door. “But I need a throwing star! Ninja! Ninja!” I protest. Joy says something to the effect of friends don’t let friends buy edged weapons and we’re back out on the street.
I still want my Parisian throwing star.
Joy makes a stop at a cyber café while Aletha and I wander around (the café is tiny and way too crowded for us). It has started to drizzle a little bit, our only bad weather in Paris. In trying to avoid the flux of umbrellas bumping into each other to the narrow street, we dodge into more stores. Somehow, Aletha keeps leading us back to the purse stores. She debates a cute, relatively cheap purse and I remind her of the cool Parisian bragging rights she’ll have if anyone asks her where she got it. Still, she decides to keep her money in her pocket. “Okay,” I say, “you’re missing an opportunity but oh well.”
With the rain slackening a bit, we hook up with Joy again and head off to the Latin Quarter. One of the guidebooks suggests a visit to Saint Chapelle to see its stained glass windows. With Aletha once again leading the way, we start walking.
Half an hour later and we’re still walking. Where the hell is this place? We’ve followed the Seine past historic church after church but still haven’t found the one we’re looking for. Insisting that we’re on the right track according to the map, Aletha leads us to what looks like a government complex. The buildings all seem to be set up in a rough circle with some parts closed off for construction. We walk through a small entryway and then back outside before we realize that we are indeed on the right track. There is a line of people waiting to go through security before buying their tickets. We get in line.
Saint Chapelle, oddly enough, is in the middle of this complex. You can barely see it from where we entered but it is a large, ornately carved church with those oh-so-European narrow winding stairs. Inside, there are only a few areas that are opened to tourists. We joined others in gaping at the very detailed windows. These pictures aren’t the best but you get the idea. Each of the windows and the panels in the church tells a story and we spent some time trying to follow them before heading back out.
Now my order of events gets a little fuzzy (that’s what happens when I take so long to write these installments). At some point, we’d passed one too many windows with yummy pastries in them to keep resisting. We bypassed the little carts selling ice cream and crepes with Nutella (hazelnut butter) and slipped into a famous shop with a name I can’t remember. Joy insisted that she must have a chocolate croissant. I also get one as well as a regular croissant and we go upstairs to sit and eat. My intent was to eat one of the treats and save the other for the next morning but it didn’t turn out that way. The bakery more than earned its reputation. We sat and looked out on the crowded streets while we ate.
After more walking, we stopped again so Joy could get a cup of tea. While they sat on a patio, I went across the street to mail some postcards. After waiting in a very long line (it seems post offices are the same all over the world) I was shocked that it cost 90 euros to mail a postcard. But they were going overseas. I finished my errand and rejoined the ladies.
Joy has yet another friend is Paris, a woman who works for her company. We’ve arranged to meet her at a fountain near our hotel. We find Anne, a Frenchwoman, and walk to an Italian place that someone recommended to her. Once again, we use the opportunity to ask a native all about everyday life in the city. Anne says that Paris is pretty expensive to live in but that’s offset by the fact that you don’t need a car. The job market is iffy at best and there are a lot of strikes in different areas of government that can make things hard.
Have I mentioned that the French have a very interesting relationship with eggs? On any menu, at any time, you can order an omelet or an egg with mayo. At this restaurant you can even order a pizza with egg on it. That’s how mine came; a cheese pizza with ground beef and a nearly raw egg right in the middle of it. The heat of the pizza slowly cooks the egg but it was a little too slow for me. I ate around it and tried to avoid the egg white as it ran over the cheese.
Joy returned the phone she’d gotten in London to Anne as we walked her back to the Metro station. We parted ways and walked the 2 short blocks to our hotel. Joy makes arrangements for a cab the next morning, telling us not to worry about the expense as she will be on the company dime. Then we headed upstairs. It was time for Aletha and me to pack up and prepare for that long plane ride back to our own country while Joy braced herself for another trip to India.
Traveler’s Tip #8: definitely take sleeping pills on any overseas trips. Thanks to those little blue pills I was able to ignore the noises of clicking heels, nicotine-soaked French voices, and garbage trucks and give in to overwhelming fatigue by sleeping it off. Woke up this morning almost refreshed and ready to start the day.
The ladies seemed to sleep better as well since they were still conked out when I woke up. I got dressed and slipped out the door so as not to disturb them. It’s yet another beautiful morning when I go on walkabout. Nothing major, just walking up the streets near our hotel. Few of the stores were open at this hour so I just window-shopped. There was a lot of construction along the streets which I really don’t understand. These streets are already so narrow. To have them cut off by scaffolding and machinery makes the congestion look impossible. I can fully understand why Paris is such a big city for walking. After about a half hour, I figure I’d better get back. I didn’t leave a note and I didn’t want the ladies to wonder where I’d gone.
When I get back, the ladies are negotiating getting dressed in the tiny room and formulating our game plan. Since we’d already hit the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d’Triompe and Notre Dame, we decide to play it by ear; shopping and then a little tour of the Latin Quarter, ending with a visit to a chapel. But first, breakfast. Stopping at yet another little café, Joy, Aletha and I manage to get a smoke-free meal. I had an excellent ham and cheese omelet and some tea. Joy had ordered French fries with her meal which I thought was unusual in that it was breakfast time and because the café actually served it that early. But … they sure were looking good. The serving was enormous so when Joy started to slow down, she let me take over. Let me tell you, I craved that breakfast for weeks afterwards. Nothing says French like a ham and cheese omelet, tea, and French fries :-).
Paris is full of little streets lined with shops. We decided to take a tour of the places we could actually afford. Checked out a bunch of jewelry places that sold both finished pieces and loose stones, then we hit a pashmina place, a book/game store, and some others. One of those stores was the French version of Lecter’s, my dearly departed favorite kitchen supply place. The store had lots of funky decorations and souvenirs for kitchen and bath located on two floors that were filled with tourists and natives alike.
We shopped for our last souvenirs of Paris in the many stores geared for just this purpose. Lots of t-shirts from the cute to the profane, nick knacks like pens and magnets, and the Eiffel Tower in more forms than you could possibly imagine. There was also, I was amused to note, quite a bit of items with naked people on them to be purchased. I got a set of playing cards with some rather happy nekkid mens on them and this interesting little wooden dice for the adventuresome couple to play with. So, okay, I’m not part of a couple but that doesn’t mean I can’t plan ahead. Where better to do this than in the city of love?
Joy leads us into one or two luggage stores as well. She’s in the market for a new purse so Aletha and I get sucked into the fun. Joy bought two bags in one store while I found myself tempted by a neat brown leather-like backpack thingy that will nicely replace my disintegrating bag from Target. Aletha decides she’ll be good and not spend any money.
As we leave one of these souvenir stores, I pass a display filled with weapons of wicked destruction. I’ve always wanted to start a knife and sword collection (not necessarily for their protective qualities but just because they look cool) so I take a good look at some throwing stars. Before I can even figure out how to pack them and take them on the plane, Joy physically moves me out the door. “But I need a throwing star! Ninja! Ninja!” I protest. Joy says something to the effect of friends don’t let friends buy edged weapons and we’re back out on the street.
I still want my Parisian throwing star.
Joy makes a stop at a cyber café while Aletha and I wander around (the café is tiny and way too crowded for us). It has started to drizzle a little bit, our only bad weather in Paris. In trying to avoid the flux of umbrellas bumping into each other to the narrow street, we dodge into more stores. Somehow, Aletha keeps leading us back to the purse stores. She debates a cute, relatively cheap purse and I remind her of the cool Parisian bragging rights she’ll have if anyone asks her where she got it. Still, she decides to keep her money in her pocket. “Okay,” I say, “you’re missing an opportunity but oh well.”
With the rain slackening a bit, we hook up with Joy again and head off to the Latin Quarter. One of the guidebooks suggests a visit to Saint Chapelle to see its stained glass windows. With Aletha once again leading the way, we start walking.
Half an hour later and we’re still walking. Where the hell is this place? We’ve followed the Seine past historic church after church but still haven’t found the one we’re looking for. Insisting that we’re on the right track according to the map, Aletha leads us to what looks like a government complex. The buildings all seem to be set up in a rough circle with some parts closed off for construction. We walk through a small entryway and then back outside before we realize that we are indeed on the right track. There is a line of people waiting to go through security before buying their tickets. We get in line.
Saint Chapelle, oddly enough, is in the middle of this complex. You can barely see it from where we entered but it is a large, ornately carved church with those oh-so-European narrow winding stairs. Inside, there are only a few areas that are opened to tourists. We joined others in gaping at the very detailed windows. These pictures aren’t the best but you get the idea. Each of the windows and the panels in the church tells a story and we spent some time trying to follow them before heading back out.
Now my order of events gets a little fuzzy (that’s what happens when I take so long to write these installments). At some point, we’d passed one too many windows with yummy pastries in them to keep resisting. We bypassed the little carts selling ice cream and crepes with Nutella (hazelnut butter) and slipped into a famous shop with a name I can’t remember. Joy insisted that she must have a chocolate croissant. I also get one as well as a regular croissant and we go upstairs to sit and eat. My intent was to eat one of the treats and save the other for the next morning but it didn’t turn out that way. The bakery more than earned its reputation. We sat and looked out on the crowded streets while we ate.
After more walking, we stopped again so Joy could get a cup of tea. While they sat on a patio, I went across the street to mail some postcards. After waiting in a very long line (it seems post offices are the same all over the world) I was shocked that it cost 90 euros to mail a postcard. But they were going overseas. I finished my errand and rejoined the ladies.
Joy has yet another friend is Paris, a woman who works for her company. We’ve arranged to meet her at a fountain near our hotel. We find Anne, a Frenchwoman, and walk to an Italian place that someone recommended to her. Once again, we use the opportunity to ask a native all about everyday life in the city. Anne says that Paris is pretty expensive to live in but that’s offset by the fact that you don’t need a car. The job market is iffy at best and there are a lot of strikes in different areas of government that can make things hard.
Have I mentioned that the French have a very interesting relationship with eggs? On any menu, at any time, you can order an omelet or an egg with mayo. At this restaurant you can even order a pizza with egg on it. That’s how mine came; a cheese pizza with ground beef and a nearly raw egg right in the middle of it. The heat of the pizza slowly cooks the egg but it was a little too slow for me. I ate around it and tried to avoid the egg white as it ran over the cheese.
Joy returned the phone she’d gotten in London to Anne as we walked her back to the Metro station. We parted ways and walked the 2 short blocks to our hotel. Joy makes arrangements for a cab the next morning, telling us not to worry about the expense as she will be on the company dime. Then we headed upstairs. It was time for Aletha and me to pack up and prepare for that long plane ride back to our own country while Joy braced herself for another trip to India.
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