The Paris Chronicles: Days One and Two
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| The view from my balcony at the Hôtel D'Orsay |
Normally I prepare for travel abroad. In the whirlwind of new faculty orientation and settling into my apartment and my new office, I just didn't this time around. I even managed to schedule an "onboarding" (I hate that word) call for my website redesign for Saturday morning, when I should have been getting properly ready. My packing consists of shoving back into my suitcase whatever I had taken out of it over the previous three days. (Conveniently, settling into my apartment did not include unpacking.) As soon as the call is over, I head for the airport.
At some point I get a message from the place I'm supposed to be staying. If my French serves me correctly, they are telling me that for health reasons, they are no longer supplying bath towels. Google Translate informs me that my French is indeed serving me correctly. I'm not quite sure how you can advertise a place as "tout équipé" and then take away the bath towels, but whatever. Would have been nice if you had told me that before I left.
First flight is to JFK. Another message. "Oh, and we do require a cash deposit of 300 euros when you arrive." OK, this is beginning to sound a bit scammy. I'm not sure what's going on, but I'm not putting down cash that I don't have for the privilege of air-drying myself for a week. Canceled.
This is happening while I'm sitting on the JFK-Paris flight (before taxiing). Thanks to Facebook, I have found out that my two friends who will be at the conference are staying at the Hôtel D'Orsay, so I make a reservation there.
The only transatlantic flight I've been on for many years is the Tampa-London/Gatwick flight. That flight is about eight hours, which is long enough (and departs late enough) for me to have something to eat and then get a bit of sleep. The JFK-Paris flight leaves earlier and is only six hours, so I arrive in Paris at what feels like midnight, with a pleasantly full stomach but no sleep to speak of.
My bag is off the plane amazingly quickly. I take a cab. The driver can't quite understand the name of my hotel, presumably because I don't do exactly the right uvular spasm on the 'r,' but allows me to type it into his phone. When we arrive there's a slight problem because the hotel doesn't seem to exist. Well, wouldn't that just be typical . . . oh, wait, there it is, just with a discreet entrance.
"Bonjour," I say to the desk clerk. (My French is limited to "Bonjour" and "Pourquoi n'y a-t-il pas de serviettes de bain?") I give her my name and tell her I'm checking in, although not right away of course, because it's 7:00 in the morning and that would be too much to hope for. "Oh, yes, your room is available."
Awesome.
I spend much of the rest of the day walking around Paris, which (I don't know whether anyone else has remarked on this) is not a bad-looking city. The advice I've always been given is that you should stay awake until normal bedtime rather than trying to nap during the day. I find that harder than usual because of the lack of sleep, and I'm a bit foggy but still do what I'm supposed to do.
At some point I realize that my lack of preparation has extended to not having any adapters for my electronics. I ask at the front desk where I might buy one in the neighborhood. Desk clerk #2 tells me she thinks they may have some, but she's not sure where they are. Hang on a second. (Turns to desk clerk #1.) "Des adapteurs?" Desk clerk #1, who is in the middle of some complicated transaction with some other non-Francophone guests, points to the appropriate desk drawer, and #2 hands over the adapter.
This has taken thirty seconds and cost me nothing. I love this place.
At some point during the afternoon I receive this picture:
