Boy have I had an adventure since last I posted. (I haven’t slept since then, either.) Let me recap. I’ll attempt chronological order, but that might not be possible given my lack of sleep and possible incoherence.

1:15pm. Arrive at Newark.

2:25pm. I get all the way to the gate, after bidding my family good-bye, when I’m summoned to the counter. They tell me the flight to Boston will be delayed enough that I’m sure to miss my connection. They give me a cab voucher, reroute my ticket to JFK airport, and tell me I’m going to still arrive in Paris by the same time, but direct from JFK to Charles de Gaulle. I sprint to collect my luggage, get a cab, and get my butt to JFK. My cab driver, appropriately or coincidentally, is a native French speaker.

4:10pm. Arrive at JFK. Traffic on the Belt was horrific for a good half-hour, so I arrive a wee bit late. Then I see the check in line. It’s a good hour long. (Boarding for the flight, according to my ticket, starts at 5:10pm.) I groan.

5:05pm. I’m checked in. I sprint to the gate, or attempt to rush through the metal detector, whipping my bundles and speeding to the gate. I get there, and everyone’s milling around aimlessly. This is a 767 we’re talking about, and so there are lots of people milling in the cramped, aluminum can of a waiting area before the gate.

6:05pm. I’m on board the aircraft. At last. I sigh and read about 10 chapters of Eldest.

7:15pm. We’re actually taking off. Amazing.

8:30pm. The woman next to me gets chatty. She’s a guidance counselor from Long Island going to Barcelona to study Spanish in an intensive 2-week program. What a coincidence, eh? We chat about language and such, and she and I complain about Regents exams. It’s a fun time. (But I want to keep reading my book! Argh!)

9:40pm. They start Failure to Launch (with Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker). I literally am cracking up, clapping and really getting into it. Half the flight’s asleep, but I’m on EST, so it’s still only 10pm for me. I really enjoy it.

11:something. The movie ends. Sadness! I attempt to doze off. In reality, I’m half-awake, waiting for them to start the promised showing of The Incredibles. They don’t.

5:35am, GMT+1. From this point, I decide it’s time to think in Paris time. I decide to try to call it bedtime until the plane rolls into CDG at 7:55am. I nap for a collective 15 minutes.

7:00am, GMT+1. It’s breakfast in Paris! (Only it’s still 1am EST, so most of us are a bit not in the mood for food.) Except, they’re hot croissants. Ah, plane food. Even if it’s microwaved, it hits the spot. Except for the dinner of lasagne we had at 8 o’clock. Blech.

8:10am. I get off in the bright daylight of Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport. Whopee! Except it’s totally farm country around the airport, and except for the occasional sign in both French and English, it resembles a polished glass-and-concrete Newark. With soft angles. It’s a lovely place, but at commuter hour, it was packed. And the City of Lights… is not here. Additionally, when you’re sticky in the soon-to-be 80 degrees F weather of Paris and there are 300 other people in the vicinity… needless to say, I started getting cranky. Not to mention my rolling luggage is 52lbs! I manage to change my American dollars and head to the right escalator.

9:something. I discover I have absolutely no idea how to purchase a Parisian métro ticket. I was literally imagining Métro-card kiosks. I mean, this is the 21st century. I get there, and the only kiosks are selling the equivalent of Amtrak and commuter tickets, no Métro billets. Those kiosks also only accept “cartes français.” Boo.

9:something, after aimless wandering. I brave the queue for the ticket window people. The lovely ladies keep saying, “Next, please!” so I think, “Oh, yay! I don’t have to actually think about my ancient French!” But I step up to not a lovely lady, but a cranky man. I stare at him blankly for a moment, somehow contemplating asking for what I want in French, then push that thought away instantly. “Can I buy a Métro ticket here?” He looks at me, and smiles amusedly. Amusedly! This is CDG! He’s gotta expect tourists! He then hesitates, asking, “One person, one way, yes?” “Yes.” He prints it and hands the little purple thing to me. It resembles a carnival ticket. “Merci,” I mumble, and slump off to find the Métro tracks. That look he gave me will always be the look I will always associate with the amused, “Aw, la pauvre américaine, she cannot speak French!” Frenchman. Bah! To add insult to my imagined injury, the next man steps up and says quickly, “Je voudrais une billet à retour pour Paris.” I frown, annoyed, and find the Métro.

10:01am: I get on the Metro. It’s somewhat like a NYC subway, but the seats are furry, like Pittsburgh buses. (The seats are smooth plastic except for a patch of furry padding on the back and bottom, which can hardly be called a cushion, hence why I refer to it as fur.) Why do they do that?

10:20am: I arrive in Chatelet-Les-Halles, a hub (much like Times Square) for the Métro. I change subways and get on one headed to the Madeleine, the nearest major stop to my hotel, as far as I can figure.

10:45am: I emerge in the sun of the street next to the Madeleine. I’m so preoccupied with the fact that (1) I haven’t slept. At all. (2) My back hurts from my ridiculously sized bookbag. (3) My luggage is 52 frickin’ pounds! and… (4) now I have to find the hotel, that I completely don’t even see the Madeleine until it nearly smacks me in the face. Okay, not literally, but I turn and wow. It’s there. Then I see the facades. Then I see the shops.

I am in Paris. I feel a bit dazed. But I still have to get to the hotel.

I grumble and pull my fifty-pound luggage down the street, guiding myself half by instinct, half by sheer exhausted excitement. And my map. (Small detail.) I find the hotel—at last, may I add—and pass about a dozen bars on the way. Bars, patisseries, bistros, cafés, you name it, they’ve got it. Oh, and a handy marché (market) and a fresh fruit vendor. This is a block from my hole-in-the-wall hotel.

I take that back, my hotel isn’t a hole in the wall. It’s as if they took a 5 story apartment building and sliced it vertically (vertically) into thirds. This building is tall and skinny, and some of the rooms have their own strange stairs leading directly to the door. Some might think it’s sort of strange, but hey, C’est Paris, n’est-ce pas? I say, “Bonjour” to the concierge and hand him my email with my info. He glances at it, types some stuff into the computer, then looks at me. “Parlez-vous français?” he asks hesitantly. “Un petit peu,” I reply sheepishly. “Okay,” he says, and then half-gestures, half-explains for me to leave my luggage and go wander for an hour while they prepare my room. Oh great, I think. I’m hot, annoyed, haven’t slept in 24 hours and I’m supposed to go “enjoy Paris.” On my way out, I notice a small computer wedged in a corner. A sign next to it reads, “1/2 Heure, 4€” And I realize: that is their internet.

I slowly begin to panic.

I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten anything but plane lasagna (which was terrible) and a croissant and my only way to contact the states is a small computer. I fervently hope I can access wireless. I take a stroll down the street and find a café of sorts, which I’d seen on the walk over. I go inside after carefully practicing what I am going to say and I say,

“Je voudrais un foccacia—”

« Non, » the woman behind the counter snaps. « Nous ne servions pas les focaccias maintenant. Seulement les sandwichs, salades, et omeletes. » I blink, surprised I completley understood her rapid speech, and immediately say, « L’Artist, si vous plait, » naming a mozzarella, tomato, and basil sandwich on a baguette. (I started typing in French in Microsoft Word, and it reverted my quotation marks to French style, automatically. Scary!) Anyway, she could tell (or could she?) that I was not easily acquainted with French, so she rang me up with a little disdain (“Six Euro quatre-vingts!”) Brilliantly, I manage to get away with a sandwich, an Evian, and a cookie (their French “value meal”) and sneak into a corner to eat. I make my way back the hotel, exhausted, but only after stopping to purchase my first bottle of wine. Ah, Paris. C’est necessaire pour l’experience! The stairs barely fit me and the lift—the lift!—can fit (imagine this) one-and-a-half people. Yes! A half person could fit in that lift, but not two whole people. I’m gasping from claustrophobia and I climb my way out onto the fourth floor. My room is small and cramped, like the rest of the place, but the bed is large and it’s clean and tidy. A good sign!

So that’s where I stand. I’ll figure out the internet soon enough.

[Actually written 12pm GMT+1 28.06.06]

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