Day 1

Well, it's been a challenging day. The kind that might prompt me to ask, "What else could go wrong?" except that I'm afraid to hear the answer ...

White Boy came and picked me up in the wee hours of the morning to take me to the airport. On a whim, he decided to park and walk me in. I was amused, then incrdibly grateful. At ticket counter, I wasn't able to check in on the do-it-yourselfer machine. After a kindly (but rather stressed out lady) started helping me, we found out that a paper ticket had been issued to JLITH. And apparently she had tried to send it to me, but I'd never received it. It took some 'splaining (it was a gift, JLITH isn't even flying, she's in SLC, she's already started at work and may be unreachable in the OR, etc) but luckily they took my word that I lived on M street, and they put me through. White Boy got seom hackles up, which spared me having to ruffle my own in public, and let me use his handy-dandy cell phone (mine was neither handy, since I'd left it at home; nor dandy in the least bit since it's the pure basic kind without even a camera since I hate talking on it so much) to call and agitate all of my relatives on how to get a hold of JLITH before my plane took off without me. And actually, we didn't really need to talk to her in the end, although I'll bet Ms. Kind-and-even-more-stressed-out would have liked to just to get the final okay. Somehow along the way the story ended up that I was in the hospital, but that just shows that you shouldn't believe everything that you hear. Ms. KAEMSO trotted me to the front of the security line, with White Boy graciously toting my heavy bag, and saw me through.

When I boarded the plane, I happened to glance at my pass, and was a little concerned that it only went as far as New York. But I was so grateful to have gotten this far that I decided not to worry about it just then.

So it was that I got onto the first plane.

We arrived in New York without further incident. Until I started to look around for my boarding pass. Uh oh. Looked again. And again. Couldn't find it. Oh no.

Got off the plane and got in line at the counter to ask about what I should do. Then I started to panic. What if the had only sent my one checked bag to New York instead of all the way to Paris? I panicked, and hurried over to the baggage claim area. And searched and searched, but to no avail. I started feeling that I had been a flibbity-gibbet and that I should have stayed back where I'd deplaned, but it was too late to go back. When it became apparent that my bag was not going to come rushing down the chute and into my arms, I consulted the calming lost baggage guy. Huzzah! Baggage HAD been checked all the way to Paris. Now I just had to get on the plane!

Got myself up to the ticketing area. Oops, it was supposed to be for First class. However, the guy must have sensed my desperation, because he listened to my story, made a few calls, and was able to reprint my boarding pass. He told me to hurry and scoot, since the gate was a long, a very long walk. I gave him my heartfelt thanks, and started to scoot.

And scoot. And scoot. And even scoot some more. Turns out that Gate 8 is THE FARTHEST GATE from the Delta counter. And as my body started to protest from the weight of my carry-on, I started to glisten. A lot. So much so that when I saw the sign for Gate 8, I celebrated by going into the nearest bathroom, and wiping myself down and changing my tops. Which I should have done after the plane took off, since the PA sounded with the last call for my flight. This time I told my protesting body to shut it while I went into hyper-mode and made it onto the plane.

On the plane, I met Antrim (like tantrum without the T), my seat mate. In the eventt of an accident, we were to help people out of the emergency exit. What it really meant is that we got double the leg room! Antrim is a photojournalist who has been working on covering the destruction of the Appalacian Mountains by a form of mining known as mountain top removal. Yes, that's right ... they just cut off the tops of mountains. We talked about a lot of things. Well, mostly I listened, but it was fascinating to hear her discourse on land and culture destruction, depopulation of the Appalacians, pollution, renewable energy, etc. And then we crashed out and slept.

When we arrived in Paris, I offered her a ride into the city. And why not? It seemed like the BackrubS thing to do, and I want to be the kind of person who makes travel buddies as easily as he does. Our driver was very handsome, and the talk into town was congenial. Turns out that the driver had not received the keys from the rental agency, so we were going to swing by the office to retrieve them, then he would successivly drop off me and Antrim at our respective locations, for no extra charge. How charming.

Except, he was gone a lot longer than the three minutes it should have taken to retrieve the keys. Sure enough, he came back and told us that the keys were not there. He could still take Antrim to make her appointment, but that I might want to have a drink at a nearby cafe until the rental agency opened. Good grief! Well, what could I do? He settled me into a cozy cafe (inside, since it was still pretty chilly outside), and I waited. Fortunately, there was free WiFi, and I was able to check my email, reassure my JLITH that I was corporeally just fine, and draft up some of the post before the office opened.

So, after about 40 minutes, I meandered ... wait, that's not the right word. You can't meander down a road when you're pulling an extremely heavy, wheeled, slightly unstable duffle bag (I left the good one at home because it was just a little too small), with an extremely heavy carry-on, while slightly sleep deprived. That goes against the very grain of "meandering." So ... I lugged my self and stuff down a chic sideroad in the 1st arrondisement to the rrental agency. And was met with confusion. V, who had helped me through the rental process thus far, was not in the office. And for some uncommunicated reason, I was not going to be able to use the apartment I had agreed to rent. They offered an upgrade, which made me happy, but also screwed up my plans, which didn't involved lugging my things another two blocks to a cab-able area, only to cross and re-cross a street so that I could get cash from an ATM to pay the cabbie (I'd given my fiver to the handsome driver to thank him for his extra trouble for me and Antrim), find a small store to buy something very small so that I would have change for the ccab, and having to mentally rearrange my idea of where I would be able to use the metro. And really, I don't mind crossing streets, there was just the painful reality of the lugging.

After I'd finally positioned myself in a prime cab-able location, it seemed that every cab was already taken. As I was hailing my fourth cab that turned out to be occupied (hey, the sun was in my eyes ... Hurray for sun on my first day in Paris), the older cabbie turned and motioned me toward the cabbie on the opposite side of the road, who was pulling over to stop. Again with the lugging across the road! But I was happy to me automatively mobile again. 8.5 euros later (which the rental agency is supposed to reimburse), I was at my new digs. Yay!

Made it through the front gate, and made my way to the second set of stairs. Went up to the second floor as instructed. ANd put my key into the door on the left. Or at least, I tried to put the key in. But it wouldn't go. Neither of the keys fit either of the holes. Moley! And I thought I heard voices on the other side of the door. So, I tried the other two doors to the right. Hey, the lady at the rental agency had told me that the ATM would be on the left side, but it was actually on the right side of the road. But to no avail. The keys I had fit none of the doors on the second floor.

Then, I had a flash of intuition. I left all my baggage on the second floor and went up one more level. And tried a key in the door on the left. Success. Must remember that first US floors are seroeth floors to the French. Just then, a guy came out of the door on the right. Overcome with embarrassment, I hurried to the first (!) floor to collect my things, since they were blocking the entire stairwell (it's a small stairwell). When he saw my predicament, he offered to help me carry up my bags. It could have been the start of a lovely friendship, but I was so weary and awkward that I didn't even ask his name, jsut thanked him profusely.

And so I put my keys into the lock and pushed. Then pulled. Then turned some more. I waited until my neighbor was beyong hearing before I started lecturing the door. It took a good twenty minutes, but it finally listened and opened. I'll just say that there had been lots and lots of glistening over the course of the day, and this last bit was no exception.

The apartment is cute. Very small studio (just a tad bit smaller than my entire bedroom, not counting the closet), but there are two twin beds pushed together, a mini washer/dryer, a little kitchenette, a phone and tv, a two-seater table, a closet toilet, and a tiny shower. And it will do just fine.

But the adventure doesn't stop there. Oh no.

I unpacked, and made my was to school. Bought my Carte Orange metro pass, and didn't annoy too many people learning which part to put through the machine. And made it to the Alliance Francaise campus. Waited in the wrong line until I was directed to the right one. Where they gave me a test and told me to go up to the testing room. When I got there, I had to be redirected to the quiet area, then I eyed the exam. And almost laughed out loud in said quiet area. Maybe they just didn't understand that I was a complete beginner. Yes, I had learned some phrasing and pronunciation, but I hadn't the slightest idea how the words looked, or how to conjugate verbs in the slightest. I made a show of taking the test, then sheepishly waited for someone to grade it and acknowledge that I needed the beginning class. Which they did in short order. The problem? All three beginner classes were full. And there were no plans to open another. Talk about a stinging disappointment! The website had said that all that was needed was to come in before the first day of class to arrange for placement, and so I'd scheduled the entire trip around taking this course. Yes, there were others, but I'd chosen this one ... mostly for the housing connection, which I didn't end up using ... and it was a blow. I made my way back to the apartment to reassess my options. Luckily I still had the spreadsheet with the schools I'd researched, and there was one other school that had a Monday start date.

So I was off like a shot. Meaning, that I left my good map on the computer, and made my way without. Lutece Langue was a little difficult to locate. It's just north of Notre Dame, but it's a suite in a much larger building. The outfit looks much smaller and informal when compared to AF, but the class size is also about six, compared to eighteen. Anyway, the staff seems intimate, friendly, and very invested in helping their students, so I'm excited about the whole thing.

Left LL and made my way back to my apartment. Passed a quaint church that had fliers for some evening classical concerts, and took some dates down.

And then, I got lost. Wandering hungrily, since I was looking for a particular restaurant with my less than stellar map. I finally gave in and got a pizza-looking thing at a charcuterie. And wanderred some more because I realy just wanted to take a nap at my apartment. It took about twenty more minutes, and then I was in heaven.

Woke up an hour later, feeling refreshed and ready for something to go right. Made my way down to the church I'd seen earlier to buy a concert ticket for some Chopin. Found it exactly on the first try. It's just down a couple blocks, next to the Shakespearre book store that Pilgrimsteps told me about. Bought a cheap ticket, and got the second best seat.

Ronald Boyer was the pianist. His deft and numble fingers were perfect. And while I had no thrills during the performance, I was pleased, and there was much to admire. Confess that I always wonder about Chopin. His music is so whimsical and yet so complexly layered. Chopin has bursts of passion, but the whimsy is never far off. I wonder about his life, especially the time that he was with Georges Sand, who I also wonder about. She wrote, "There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved." She was a writer, a feminist, a Baroness, and flouted many conventions of her day. What would she say about the status of women today? She goes on my list of strong women to find good biographies about.

And now I've come back to my Parisian home. And unloaded everything. Bravo/a to you if you're still reading. I probably won't be as detailed in the future, but hopefully there will be more to tell, and I'll be busy doing it.