I arrived in Paris late at night on Wednesday the 12th of October, 2022. I was exhausted and wandering around Charles de Gaulle like a zombie. Charles de Gaulle makes LAX look easy to manage. I had been on the flight from LAX to Dublin for ten hours, had a four-hour layover in Dublin, then a little over an hour into Paris, with about an hour spent just trying to find my way out of it and into baggage. CDG is a maze. You follow signs saying “BAGGAGE” but then suddenly, at the end of what seems the tenth but is probably only the third escalator down, the baggage signs stop and there is just a train. WHAT TO DO? Which train? It is unclear. I was wandering around and these young Irish people said, “WTF where do we go?” I looked at them, they looked at me, we shrugged, and decided to get on the first train and get lost together. Thankfully, that train eventually led to baggage claim, where I easily found my suitcase-a little worse for the wear, and headed to find my ride to the hotel. She was looking for me and I was looking for her and finally, we met somewhere outside where we were continuously besieged by taxi drivers. We loaded my luggage onto a cart and headed in the direction of the hotel shuttle, which was not as easy as the hotel made it out, and finally, I just said fuck it, we’re taking a cab. Forty euros later and a very comfortable SUV cab ride, we were at the hotel, and checked in. We spent the night in a very generic (but clean with great customer service) airport hotel, shared Sprinkles cupcakes, which I got from a cupcake ATM at LAX, and crashed out completely happy and entirely exhausted.
The next morning, (my first morning in France!) after an amazing breakfast buffet at our hotel (hint, LOTS OF CHEESE AND BUTTER), my then colleague and I set off on the airport train to Gare Du Nord. Out of the station, we found a very rainy Paris. Umbrellas were out and open, raincoats and boots were one, puddles were forming and the streets took on a sheen of wet asphalt and the glitter that is being in Paris. Rain isn’t daunting when you are charmed by a city, by travel, and by a long-awaited visit with a friend. Into the next hotel on my itinerary, we went, just across the street from the station, and were shuttled into an ancient and tiny elevator to the eighth floor, found my room, and struggled with the lock a bit before Eleanor realized it was a double lock, and into the most glorious room in Paris. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even nice by American standards, but it was VERY Parisienne with odd angles and a vintage shower that looked like it originated in the 1920s. Me being me, I flung open the windows and just gaped. On one side I had a view of the Gare du Nord with all its bustle and busyness on the other, I had the view of the Sacre Coeur and the French flag. Even Eleanor, who lives here, was stunned at my view. We spent some time photographing it from different angles, and laughing when we bumped into each other in the tight, quirky little room then Eleanor had to go to a meeting and left me to my own devices. I had thought to rest as I’d had little sleep and could have used it, but I was in the city of my dreams – PARIS.
I unpacked, grabbed my handbag and a raincoat, and set out to walk the streets of Paris. I walked with a colleague to the Gare du Nord, and she pointed me in the right direction, and as soon as she was gone, I ended up forgetting and just rambling the streets of Paris. I was happily lost in the city of my dreams. The rain had stopped and all that remained was the sheen of it, the occasional puddle, and the petrichor of all the rainy Parisienne afternoons. My boots squelched on wet and yellow leaves and I just rambled, or went on a flannerie, as they call it here. I practiced my poor French in stores, managed to get euros, met a man who was the road manager and percussionist for The Four Tops, bought pastries in a patisserie, got blisters, and got lost. I eventually found my way when I stopped to ask a woman, “Ou est la Gare du Nord?” and she said, “droit, droit, droit” (right, right, right). Following her instructions, I turned right at one intersection, right on another, and right one more time right onto the street of my hotel, where I got into the wacky elevator and to my room. I ended up with nasty blisters after three hours walking, two tartes framboise, a brush, and comb (I’d forgotten to pack mine), lots of bonhomie from the locals, lots of random photos of doors, door knobs, cobblestones, and people, and the obligatory selfie stick for the better shots I’d hoped to get later when I went sightseeing.
