After enjoying a heady plunge into the world abroad as a young lady hailing from the sleepy suburbs and the tranquil town of Fredericksburg, I vowed to not only go home and write a novelette of my whirlwind tour of Paris but to additionally become fluent in the lovely french tongue, returning to gay Paris after college to acquire a job, marry, and have a few lovely little french poppetts who would be sure to beg for bonbons and trill oh la la!
If only I could star in an Audrey Hepburn film! C'est domage, non? Well, aside from capturing my heart, Paris also made me crave yet another trip abroad-Prague, London, Dublin, Brussels, Austria...the list is endless.
However, in order to comply with the above title, I must relay the secret of escaping the dreaded fatigue that accompanies even the most seasoned traveler-le jet lag! Simple my dear, I was far too excited to comprehend a nap so I wore myself out the first day walking from Notre Dame to Gare du Nord (or at least in the Chatlet district). I also had to contend with my bag, a nasty, ill-behaved object that refused to be trundled obediently on its four little wheels. Instead, it broke its strap, cut my hands, and bluntly insisted on being lugged by hand like the baby it insisted on being. By the time Fleu discovered me at the airport, I was already becoming tired of its utterly insolent ways. We rushed to make her doctor's appointment that morning but the RER was slow so we took the bus to Rue Edith Pief-my first little residence-a charming flat in a somewhat dirty but respectable quarter. After dropping off the troublesome sacs, Fleu gave me the key, a ticket, and a little metro map, setting me on my first adventure. Those first hours remain a bit blurry but I do recall going through my trusty official guide to Paris and settling on visiting the picturesque Canal St Martin. As a walked along the canal, I saw picnic-ers and schoolchildren and old men sketching but I steadily followed the Canal until I arrived at the metro. Arriving in Rambuteau, meeting Fleu and getting my first tour of the Beaubourg and Les Halles with St-Eustache and sculptured head-I'Ecoute by Henri de Miller. The day was gloriously pretty and Fleu took me for cafe at the famous Cafe Beaubourg and introduced me to the underground shopping mall that housed Chatlet (a name that I would grow to despise). I did actually sleep in short, interrupted little jags while on the bus to the Eiffel Tower and so we decided to forgo the trip to the top for the moment and take a nap in the field opposite the Tour Eiffel. Then Fleu introduced me to some friends and I was wisked off to 'ave some vun wiz ze zoung peeple' namely Benedicta and her posse-very sweet girls who seemed to chat uncommonly fast to my tired ears. I was delighted to meet "real live french teenagers" and I drank in their style, taste, and expressiveness! They beg to be compared to little, quick sparrows who bob and gesture continually-non? I most likely appeared both dull-witted and over-eager, rather like a puppy perhaps, something that is tres passe-oh la!
They were very kind, however-we discussed differences of culture over a fruit plate (they adored my fake Vuitton and remarked on Desparate Housewives although they turned up their noses at Sex and the City-interessente? We toured the Montparnasse area and then took the metro to see the Eiffel Tower yet again (I didn't dare say that I had seen it, Parisians seem dead set on hauling impressionable tourists to the main event). We met some charming boys-I was quite ready for the prospect of meeting the french men. They showed me the Palais de Chaillot and dropped me at the metro with the promise of some shopping that Saturday, peut-etre? Mais oui!
I must begin my next entry regaling you with tales of the key that caused me to make friends very quickly.