In just 8 or 9 relatively short hours by plane, I went from the capital of China to the capital of France. The world's fastest train carried me a whizzing 431km/h to the Shanghai airport from whence a plane zipped me to Beijing. From there, and without further adieu, another plane dropped me ahead of schedule at (the loathed) CDG airport in Paris.
Once in Paris, well, I queued for a half hour to buy a ticket of equal cost to the super-fast Maglev train for the RER train that took five times as long and was filled with gypsies and graffiti. Ah, back to civilization.
Of course, I had to transfer trains too. And with my two carry-ons and my 50-lbs rolling bag, that was no small task. As always and even with explicit directions, the RER system confounded me, as I went down the wrong platform and up again to find the right one, only to discover I couldn't go down again without going up yet again. A pleasant looking security man with a mean looking German Shepard took pity on me, or perhaps it was that my tear-swollen eyes and and the sweat rolling down my temples, and told me to follow him when I asked, in a trembling voice, (gimme a break, it was already past midnight, China time), how the (HELL) I to get down to the other platform.
I have to imagine we made a mad scene, me in my hat and my three bags and him with his vicious K-9 in its studded, black leather muzzle. He chatted away in Parisian slang and I "oui-ed" along until we landed where I needed to be. One stop and many sketchy looking folk later and I found myself on Haussman Blvd at an overpriced cafe, having wine with a French screenplay writer I'd met several months before.
Paris may have lovely weather in the summertime but it sure brings out the freaks. This was all new to me... I am a Paris-by-summer-virgin (or was). As I waited for my brother, sipping a cafe and pouring over J D Salinger's short stories, I ignored the street insanity before me like a professional (as it doesn't differ much from the usual Bologna scene, to which a year of living had me quite accustomed).
When finally my brother arrived (late plane from Italy where things run less efficiently than they do in China), we had a glass of wine and a midnight, sidewalk dinner of Steak Frites and Salade Poulet. Have you ever noticed that the French like to sit like sardines, all lined up along the sidewalk, so as to best people-watch? It quite differs from the manner in which the Chinese sit grouped around the largest tables they can find (2-3 people to a 5-10 top table) in wide spaces like courtyards or parks.
The next day my littlest broski - as he likes to refer to himself in emails to me - and I did a speed version of our favorite sort of Paris visit together. Food, shopping, sightseeing, coffee, sightseeing, wine, shopping, sightseeing, food, wine, food. Oh, and chatting chatting chatting. As he was oriented in the 8th, we made our way toward the 5th and 6th to begin our day. At one point, during haircuts, I described my desire to learn to pincurl my hair and my brother pointed out that he always learns pointless girl trivia while hanging out with me. I pointed out that that was, in fact, what sisters were for. And, likewise, that he served perfectly for feeding me rich philosophical and historical trivia, thank you very much, and making me sound much more intelligent than I might otherwise. (Turns out his trivia came in very handy later during some dinner parties in Tuscany, making me sound very educated indeed).
Later in the day, I learned that Napoleon had his own entrance at the opera, big enough for him to ride in astride a horse.
In the evening, we lost ourselves in the lovely shops of the 6th and a cozy little wine shop that must have had a very different atmosphere when, centuries (years) ago, artists and philosophers sat about and sucked at their Gauloise, creating a foggy, aromatic haze in the rafters. When we finally wandered back to the apartment little broski called home temporarily, hunger had turn us both into evil versions of ourselves so that any dinner planning became impossible until we remembered the cheese and champagne we'd procured to assuage our low-blood sugar afflictions.
Somehow, later, we found ourselves seated in a fancy little place in the 5th, decor recalled the 1920s - or maybe a little earlier - with mirrors and metal molding everywhere. We feasted on snails, pate, suckling pig and roast duck. For desert we shared a creme brulee. The waiter fancied my brother a bit (lovely eyes, he told him) so after we polishing off our drinks and paying we ducked out before anyone got any ideas... The rain dampened our plans to find dancing or ride the big ferris wheel and watch the lights.
In the morning brunch was delicious but became quickly painful as the waiter took a seemingly pointless lunch break in the middle of serving our table and couldn't be budged to get our check. Clock ticking... plane to catch. When finally a taxi dropped me at Orly, I joined the already impossibly long line for my discount flight to Italy. Merci beacoup, French attitudes about serving tables. But the flight was delayed any how. So I guess I can thank French attitudes about timeliness for it not mattering in the end anyhow.
I made it to Italy, late. And it was hot when I got there. And, I should point out, it was August 1: The beginning of holidays in Europe. So let me lend some advice: if you do not speak Italian, this is not the day to land in Italy. As I rushed to make a late bus and make the last regional train going to a tiny town north of Rome, I never would have known what to do if I hadn't been able to ask quickly in Italian and understand the response. Everything was crowded and running late. Back in the developed world!
I arrived in fine form, sweating and stressed, for my first day on the job as an English teacher in the rolling coastal hills of southern Tuscany.
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