Hitting the Ground Running

I felt nauseous with anxiety as soon as I bought this ticket. That’s how I knew I was doing the right thing and taking myself out of my comfort zone again. Paris has been hanging around on my bucket list for a while, mainly thanks to Moulin Rouge. And now that I can, can, can, why not go?! Quite frankly, the airfare deal was a steal and obviously tourism hasn’t bounced back yet so it seemed like an ideal opportunity to take advantage of. However, it’s still always scary to pull the trigger on an overseas trip; especially going alone. Before today, I would have added “and barely knowing the language” but I’ve already realized I know even less than I thought so that part doesn’t seem to actually fit. I’d be overstating my ability!

I booked the flight before France had officially announced they were reopening to tourists so I was able to score a ridiculously good deal on round trip first class tickets, with only one layover each way, and respectable layover lengths at that. The deal was so good that when I looked at the flight again a couple weeks ago, just to see what current fares were, it had increased by about $4,500. I never fly Delta so I wasn’t sure what I was in store for, especially with all the COVID adaptations. The first leg of my flight departed Sacramento on time and, gasp, I got to have my first alcoholic beverage on an airplane in about 18 months! That first glass of bubbly and pulling up the flight tracker on the screen before me helped quell my nerves; the flight tracker always relaxes me into the thrill of an adventure. Instead of serving lunch, they provided a “Bistro Snack Box.” At first glance I was certain it would make me feel icky with it’s kettle chips, kind bar, Oreos, smoked Gouda spread, crackers, beef stick, and gummy bears. But alas, the portions were perfectly sized, the ingredients and nutrition facts weren’t bad at all, and it turned out to be a delightfully eclectic little meal. Quite frankly, the salty, but not greasy, kettle chips and the meat stick were a fabulous pairing. Between a couple glasses of bubbles, the snack box, some Married at First Sight on my iPad, chit chat with the lady next to me (I really wanted to pry into her line of work as a hypnotherapist!), and a little nap the flight was over before I knew it.

I had a two hour layover in Atlanta so when presented with the option of a tram to take me between terminals or, per the monitors, a 30 minute walk to the international terminal I didn’t hesitate to walk, even hauling all my stuff (because I only traveled with carry on) the walk would be good for me. I was almost disappointed when it only took me 15 minutes. Delta has lounges in every terminal in Atlanta and I had read somewhere that the international terminal had the best one so I was glad I had some time to check it out. It wasn’t very interesting. Nowhere near as nice as any Amex Centurion lounge I’ve been in and inferior to other airline lounges I’ve experienced. I didn’t even get a cocktail because I knew I’d want one on my next flight and didn’t need to be dehydrating myself further. I hung out in there for a few but the seats were pretty uncomfortable and I don’t like being away from my gate and unable to hear announcements.

My overseas flight to Paris was delayed a solid hour for cleaning. Delta did a horrible job communicating the delay, in fact the gate agents didn’t communicate ANYTHING at all until it was already 30 minutes past the scheduled boarding time. Twice, the crew came and were turned away from even being able to go on themselves because the plane was still being cleaned. When the cleaning crew finally walked out, at 9:45pm, the exact scheduled departure time, everyone at the gate applauded and cheered. The hour delay was annoying but I had my own entertainment. I had situated myself against a wall to stretch before boarding, with the water fountains next to me. Now, Atlanta really needs to get their shit together. Not a single bottle filler to be found (HUGE strike!) and their water fountains have the weirdest hands-free system. I honestly couldn’t figure it out myself until I saw a janitor show someone. From that point on, I’d watch with amusement while people tried, and failed oh so miserably, to get any water, before I’d finally pipe up and tell them the trick. If I had a tip jar I could’ve made some decent money.

Finally boarding the plane, I couldn’t help but look around and wonder which of my fellow passengers were suckers and coughed up the ridiculous current fare for their seats. DeltaOne seating consists of little pods with a door and lay-flat bed. Sounds great, but feels awfully claustrophobic when you first get in there. And nowhere to tuck your things away! AND THE FLIGHT TRACKER DIDN’T WORK! I should’ve known my pod was a lemon from the start when I tried to open my tray to put some stuff down while getting settled and the flight attendant had to come help me because that sucker was STUCK.

Pretty shortly after take off, dinner was served. I selected the Chilean sea bass, served with corn chowder, salad, bread and butter, and a glass of bubbles. It was delicious. Better than any restaurant fish I’ve ever had. The entire meal was great and not a morsel was left behind, except for the strawberry ice cream because sugar and dairy were the last two things I needed if I wanted to sleep. After dinner I washed my face (European Wax Center gel face wash is THE BEST, does not require water and is perfect for traveling), brushed my teeth, made my bed (yeah, on Delta they don’t do it for you like other airlines but that could have just been a COVID adaptation), and actually managed to get about 4.5 hours of sleep. I felt like I could have slept longer but they were coming around with breakfast service and there wasn’t a ton of flight time left. I don’t take for granted that being dressed perfectly in comfy clothes was a big part of why I was able to fall asleep. I stood up to go use the restroom and found myself stuck in my pod. Yup, my little door wouldn’t open. Stuck. The flight attendant couldn’t get it either. I wasn’t desperate to get out so she brought me my breakfast, passing the tray to me over the top, while they figured it out and were able to free me. Breakfast was a meusli with fruit, croissant, and a tea. The croissant was ok but the meusli was superb. I freshened up with another face wash (another staple this time, cetaphil face wipes for a gentler cleanse in the morning) and a clean face mask before making sure I was ready for landing.

As the plane descended my anxiety struck again. I don’t even like big cities, what the heck am I doing here?! My thoughts were distracted by being impressed with the exceptionally smooth landing, at 1:01pm – exactly 1 hour and 1 minute late. The flight attendants made announcements reminding everyone that a surgical mask was required in the airport, no vanity masks would do. By 1:08pm I was walking off of the plane. And by 1:17pm I was completely done with customs. Absolutely no wait, and no baggage control either. Super disappointed, however, with how light the stamp in my passport book is, they need to freshen their ink. I figured out where the proper pickup spot was, called an Uber, and should have been in an Uber by 1:23pm. Talk about efficient. Except my Uber driver called and told me I needed to come meet him at the arrivals level, despite what the app and airport regulations say. But it’s hard to argue with a language barrier so I was going to acquiesce. I got in an elevator up to the arrivals level and the door opened to a police officer blocking it and demanding that I immediately go back down. Another lady was in the elevator with me and we both looked confused as he kept shooing us, “Go, Go.” Looking past him I realized that the entire part of the terminal behind him was blocked off and police with dogs milled around. “Bomb, go.” Got it, clear as day now, some sort of bomb scare suspected. I couldn’t have punched the down button and called for a different Uber fast enough. There seemed to be no panic but sirens blared towards the airport. Well this was a lovely start.

I had gotten my second wind upon landing but the 50 minute drive to my apartment was lulling me back towards sleep. I struggled to stay awake and I was thankful that the Uber drive gave up trying to communicate with me because a plexiglass barrier between the seats plus masks plus a language barrier is just plain impossible to communicate through. My anxiety and exhaustion both grew as the Uber reached my apartment in Ile Saint-Louis and I felt the rush of the bustling city. My driver obviously shared my anxiety over the corner building we pulled up to and insisted on waiting to make sure my codes worked and I was able to get inside.

Well, my code worked, and I was glad he waited because for a split second I almost turned right back around and asked him to take me to a hotel. But I sucked it up, thought of all the good reviews I had read on AirBnB, and waved him away. The sight that met me when I stepped inside included crumbling plaster, supports holding up part of the staircase, and the spiral staircase all covered in construction protection. Did I mention that there is no elevator? My host had instructed me that the apartment was on the 4th floor with a white door and they keys hidden in a box. I’m not sure where this guy learned how to count but it’s on the 6th floor, which matters when you are carrying all your luggage, on a crumbling spiraling staircase with the bannister falling off. Later, I translated the note I saw in lobby and learned that they were doing lead removal work. Awesome. A tiring 100 steep and curvy steps later, I found the key hidden in the wall and, after a struggle with the lock, made it into my apartment for the week.

It’s a small, eclectic little flat with a beautiful view overlooking the Seine, Norte Dame, and even the Eiffel Tower in the background. I’m not even joking though that I could not find the toilet! It’s not in the bathroom with the shower, sink, and washing machine like one would assume. Oh no, it’s hidden behind what looks like a little coat closet door right by the entrance. Someone obviously lives here when it’s not being rented out and I never like that feeling but oh well, I do think the location is going to be ideal and the view is pretty cool. Except, it’s after 11pm on a Sunday night here right now and giant night club party boats are still cruising down the Seine, blaring music loud enough to drown out my own thoughts.

Thinking I’d be arriving on-time a little earlier, I had my first monument reservation booked for 3:30pm. I barely had half an hour to unpack, give myself a bird bath, make a snack, and get myself together to venture out. Stop one on today’s itinerary, the Sainte-Chapelle, thankfully just a mere 15 minute walk from my apartment. I honestly considered just crashing with exhaustion but forced myself to get going. It would only make jet lag worse and I had a hunch fresh air would do me good. There’s something about walking the streets, by yourself, surrounded by people only speaking a language you don’t understand that makes you feel basically invisible. It was an odd sensation as I walked down the streets, hearing not a word of English or feeling like I was going to be able to communicate through this town. I found Sainte-Chapelle easily and after going through airport-level security made it in at my reserved time. I was met with its beautiful stained glass in the upper cathedral, and with disappointment in the lower cathedral with a gift shop taking up a solid chunk of the historic space. Sainte-Chapelle is beautiful but didn’t feel overwhelmingly special to me. Maybe it was my exhaustion, maybe my lack of religious beliefs, or maybe it’s gift shop commercialization.

Leaving there, I headed towards the Pantheon, my only other scheduled event for the day. The large boulevard my route took me down was blocked off from cars and the sides were lined with spectators. No signage or anything hinted at the purpose. Finally I worked up the nerve to approach a young family and ask, “Parlez-vous anglaise?” And “Oui!” Jackpot! I asked them what was happening and through some rough communication figured out it was a parade of sorts showcasing the sponsors of the Tour de France. “It’s very French” the husband told me. Still confused but at least having some idea I kept on walking and within moments, sure enough, streams of cars showcasing random products came rushing down the street, blaring their horns and music, and swerving all over. People crowded onto the curbs as though it were the Disneyland light parade (does that still exist – I feel like it might not).

The Pantheon initially underwhelmed me as well. Again, I’m exhausted, but still. I also couldn’t remember what it’s significance was. There’s some giant pendulum thing inside that’s pretty cool and some artwork that didn’t do anything for me. But it did reinforce for me that key with the Parisian monuments is to look up. That’s it, look up, at the ceiling. Both in Sainte-Chapelle and in the Pantheon the vantage points of the ceilings made for some of the most interesting views.

Searching for the restroom before I left, I stumbled upon the crown jewel of the Pantheon, what makes it special. The crypts! Yes, the crypt in the lower level of the Pantheon holds the remains of some of the greatest minds including Voltaire, Victor Hugo, Marie Curie, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and many others. I do love old cemeteries and I love great minds so now my interest was peaked. I slowly made my way through the chilling underground chambers, being reminded of these greats and visiting their final resting places.

Leaving the Pantheon, I headed towards Le Jardin du Luxembourg. It seems like a bit of a NY Central Park equivalent. I would have liked to wander more and I may go back but I cut my visit short as I was starving and really needed to find a solid meal. The meusli on the airplane and almond butter toast snack I made when I first got to the apartment weren’t cutting it anymore. I’m not going to lie, I even considering ducking into a McDonalds just to get something in me quickly but made myself keep walking.

I decided to head back towards my apartment and eat at one of the little restaurants on the Ile. I had circumvented Norte Dame on my way out to get to Sainte-Chapelle but my route “home” took me right alongside it. As I walked past I marveled at the fire damage. I felt like the cathedral was violated with its exposed beams and inner stricture outwardly visible due to the damage she suffered. I was in awe staring up at the charred exterior and construction equipment deployed to put humpy dumpty back together again.

I ended up sitting down for dinner at Aux Anysetiers Du Roy – a small restaurant just a few doors down from my apartment. They have not opened their indoor dining but have a little patio area set up on the quiet street. “Madame” sat me at a table next to a couple older ladies who I immediately realized were speaking English! I think she did this on purpose as I immediately apologized, at least in French, for my lack of French-speaking ability when I asked for a table. I had a delightful dinner, chatting with the ladies the entire time. They are in their 70s and sisters. We talked about all the traveling they’ve done together and how they make it work to spend so much time together (they refuse to share a hotel room!) and their tips, tricks, recommendations, and experiences in Paris. They told me of some self-guided walking tour routes they had done and would recommend and pulled out their guide book so I could snap pictures of their routes. They filled me in on etiquette (they’ve been to Paris many times) on things like tipping and the fact that you always have to ask for your check because the French think it’s rude and like they are rushing you out if they just bring it to you. They turned out to be the perfect dinner company. They told me how cool it was that on Sundays locals of all creed and stature congregate in the sculpture garden and dance. I didn’t even know there was a sculpture garden! I enjoyed my time and sat there for close to two hours chatting with Ann and her sister (I missed sister’s name, oops!). And the food was fantastic as well. A green salad to start with a salmon entree and glass of rosé. It wasn’t fancy but the food was perfect. She must have cooked these carrots in pure butter.

A quick stop in the little market after dinner and I got to again make the trek up six flights of stairs, not four but six, to drop off the water, cherries, and wafers that I couldn’t resist. I may have just gone through half the cherries writing this! They are delicious!

The sun doesn’t set here until about 10pm so I had plenty of time for an after dinner walk. The Sculpture Garden I learned of from Ann and sister is only about half a mile away so it was a perfect destination. I loved seeing families and friends all congregating along the banks of the Seine and in the Sculpture Park, eating snacks, drinking wine or beer, just relaxed and laughing. As far as sculptures go, from what I could find the “sculpture” part of the sculpture garden was lacking. BUT, sure enough there was dancing! Every 30 yards or so I came across a different type of music, some live, some recorded, and eclectic groups of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages, dancing to the style. There was a swing area, a tango area, a salsa area, you get the point. To the side of some of the areas there were instructors walking around and giving little lessons. I wished Brandon was with me so I could try to get him to give in to a lesson with me!

I absolutely loved seeing all the happy people. They are doing life right. Walking back to my apartment the sun was setting behind Norte Dame and I expected with sunset the groups would start to disappear. The sunset lighting made for some magical views from my apartment windows. But let me tell ya, I was way off base with my thought that on a Sunday folks would retreat with the sunset. I got back to my apartment about 9:30pm. It’s 12:45am now and the party night club boats are still blaring music up and down the river. Looking outside I can see that the banks are still hosting groups of revealers.

Tomorrow is my first FULL day. Given how much I knocked out in one afternoon today I’m excited to see what tomorrow brings. And I’ve also gotten very good at my introductory statement anytime I have to interact with someone, “Je suis desole. Je parle un peu Francais mais pas bien.” – I’m sorry. I speak a little French but not well.