Yesterday, I arrived in Paris. After my initial 24 hours of bawling my eyes out, I was excited! I had my sunglasses, I had read all the guidebooks, and I was READY. BRING IT ON.
My high lasted all of 30 minutes.
I sat, and waited for my group. And waited. And waited. Tried my phone. It was dead. Tried my computer; also in an electronic coma. My converters wouldn't work, so I was in a new country stranded, with no one to contact. After asking the info lady about 9.4o flights from Chicago ( I was proud of my ingenuity on that one) I took two trains to different terminals and still found no one. I missed my group shuttle and had to manage by taking the RER (like the Metra for Chicagoans) into the city.
After struggling with my luggage through the dark and dirty depths of public transportation, I emerged on the Rue de Notre Dame St. Michel. It was beautiful! The buildings were gorgeous, and people were walking around looking French, and there were stores, and cafes, and...it was raining. I inquired to various passersby where the Rue Sommerard (where my hotel was) was located. I eventually went into a bank where a very nice young man found out directions for me, but I think he thought I was an idiot, because I asked him to repeat himself three times.
Finally, FINALLY, I get to the hotel. I'm hot, I'm sweaty, and a hotel has never looked so good in my life...Never mind that I totally would have never stayed there if it were the States. But, it was a place to sleep, and was my destination, and most importantly, it was paid for.
After giving me my room keys, the receptionist says, "it's on the 4th floor, so you just go on up."
Now, if you're not French, you think the fourth floor is, well, the fourth floor. No. It's not. It's the fifth. The first floor is called the au-rez-de-chaussee. The second floor is then called the premier etage (floor), and the the third is the second, and so on.
Anyway, I turn around and look for the elevator.
I don't see it, but that doesn't mean anything. It could just be hiding, right? Right?
No. It wasn't hiding. ...It was nonexistent.
"Just go on up?" I say.
"Oui, just go up." says she. She's also barely concealing her laughter.
I drag my 62 pound bag up 5 flights of those long, nasty twisty stairs. I huff, I puff, I would have blown the freakin hotel down if it weren't for a very nice gentleman who offered help around the second (or first, for frenchies) floor.
Obviously, when I got to my hotel room, I collapsed.
BUT the rest of the day went much better. I finally met up with my group, and we have our first real french dinner that night. I tried the creme brulee, and it was quelle delicieuse!
Around midnight, I finally fell asleep.
I dreamed in French.
This morning, I woke up my roommates and we had a quick petit dejuner and went to the Alliance Francaise (our school) for placement tests.
Then, we had a scavenger hunt, in which the fruits of such are available for your viewing pleasure below.
A bientot!
-C.
bonjour mi amour! it's your pitbull loving love of your life here. i am going to be stalking this so you better update a lot. you better be enjoying paris! not many of us americans can say we lived in paris for 2 months!
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