"THREE AND A HALF HOURS IN PARIS?" Having told the story of Tim and Ted's Excellent Adventure many times, I had become quite used to hearing comments such as this. Three and a half hours was, admittedly, not enough time to see or do much of anything in the City of Lights. "You have to go back" people would say to me. "I know," was my usual reply, "someday I will."
As it happened, "someday" arrived sooner than I expected, thanks to a bargain airfare that was too good to pass up. I could only spare a week--well, five days to be exact. Could I see it all in five days? Let the race begin!!
In the morning, it was off to the airport. After a brief stop in
San Francisco, I prepared myself for the 11 hour flight
to follow. The first nine hours passed
quickly, but the last two seemed to drag on forever. It's impossible to fully
understand just how uncomfortable economy-class seats are until you try to sleep in one.
After ten and a half hours, I began to think about what could have motivated
me to want to endure such torture. But then, just as the need for some form of
reconstructive butt surgery seemed inevitable, I caught a glimpse of land. At
last! I had arrived.
As the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle airport and
began to taxi toward the
terminal, it became apparent that, in celebration of International Third-World Airport Remembrance Day, the customary jetway normally used to
disembark passengers would not be utilized. Instead, under the watchful eye
of security personnel armed with devices that looked similar to cattle-prods,
we would be herded onto the tarmac and up through a service entrance. Having long since been used to such red carpet treatment when I travel, I wasted no time getting into the terminal. After picking up a 5-day unlimited public transportation pass I made my way to the shuttle bound for the nearby RER station. Once in the city, an easy connection on the Paris Metro put me within close walking distance of my hotel. In the finest European tradition, I found my chambre (room) to be quite spacious and roomy (by Geneva Prisoner-of-War standards.) I dropped off my bags and proceeded to make my way around the neighborhood, trying not to think about how many francs I would be forced to spend on my Parisian accommodations.
Such feelings behind, I made my way to nearby Rue Cler
where the sights and
smells of its large open-air market were calling. Soon I was surrounded by
large stands of fruits, vegetables, and the like. It took me a while to find my way past
all the healthy food to the man selling crepes smothered in melted chocolate.
Hey, I'm on vacation, right? As I walked through the bustling streets
munching on my chocolate crepe, it all seemed quite unreal. Here I was, on
the first day of my vacation and yet it strangely felt as though I had arrived
home. Suddenly, I began to feel as though I had lived there for years.
Unbeknownst to those around me, I quickly became assimilated into the Parisian lifestyle.
As it turned out, however, blending in with the locals proved to have its down side. That day, several people tried to strike up a conversation with me in French. Of course, I had no idea what they were saying in most cases which left me to only to smile and ask, "Parlez-vous anglais?" ("Do you speak English?"). They would invariably respond, "no" and leave me to ponder why I had taken Spanish and not French for my foreign language in school. This continued on throughout my trip. Every day, at least half a dozen people would approach me and immediately begin blathering away in French. As time went on, I began to discover that even the French people themselves couldn't differentiate me from one of their own--I looked like a local, dressed like a local, and after a while, I even began to act like a local. Soon I had mastered the haughty "get out of my country you lousy tourist" look as I walked down the street. So long as I didn't try to speak any French my disguise was foolproof--of course, any attempt at the language and the rouse was up.
Having finished up the last of my chocolate crepe I now found myself in a
sugar-induced state of euphoria, ready to see the sights. My first stop was a short walk away
at the Musée D'Orsay (Orsay Museum). After viewing the many impressive
works by Monet, Van Gogh, Renoir, and of course paying my respects to
Whistler's Mother, I wound my way back through the city toward Rue Cler for
dinner. As I headed back to the hotel to drop off some of the food I had
picked up along the way, I noticed the time--around 6:00 PM. "Wow," I
thought to myself, "3:00 AM back home and I'm feeling great!" Seemingly
immune to the nine-hours of jet-lag I had picked up from my overnight flight,
I sat down on the bed to glance at a book. But just as I did, it hit me--suddenly,
I began to feel the weight of the last 24 hours catching up with me.
It seemed my entire body was about to shut down--but I
couldn't go to bed this early! My only chance to beat the jet-lag was to keep
going for a little longer. I quickly got up, and wandered back outside, heading
for Trocadéro. After viewing its impressive view of the Eiffel Tower, I went
for a stroll along the Seine, slowly making my way around to the 7th
arrondissement. By the time I made it to the hotel it was around 9:00 PM. I
had done it--my body was now on local time! Only one challenge now remained--staying
awake long enough to pull the covers up and over my tired and worn-out body.
A second later, I was asleep.
As it was Sunday I temporarily abandoned my French identity and headed for
the American Church in Paris. It felt strange to be speaking English again,
almost as if I had stumbled into an oasis of the culture I had left 6,000 miles
behind. After the morning service, I made my way to the
Musée Rodin (Rodin Museum) where I found "The Thinker" still in a state of deep thought.
I wondered what he might be pondering . . . "why am I green?" . . . "where are
my clothes?" . . . "why do people keep staring at me?!?"
Having thought enough about such matters myself, I made my way back
through the metro to Invalides where I hopped the RER C to the town of
Versailles. A short walk from the station and I was at the famed
Châteaux de Versailles. Of course there are no "short walks" once you get there. After
seeing the palace and walking for miles through the Palace Gardens, I had seen
enough. I made my way for the nearby SNCF station and hopped a train back
into the city. I stopped off at Pompidou Center, but found it had closed early
that evening. Ah well, there's always tomorrow.
Monday morning I was a man with a mission. I had only one day remaining
on my three-day museum pass and I was determined to make the most of it.
My first stop was the Louvre, where I was among
the first that morning to gaze at the Mona Lisa,
Winged Victory and Venus de Milo.
Not wasting any time, I made my way to the Arc de Triomphe
where I climbed the ten million or so stairs to the top. Though painful, the view
of the Eiffel Tower proved worth it.
Moving on down the Champs-Élysées, I made my way to the
L'Orangerie where I found a local artist skillfully reproducing
"Jeunes filles au piano" by Renoir. After a brief look at Monet's
water lillies, it was off again,
this time headed for Sainte-Chapelle. Inside, its ornate
stained-glass windows proved well worth the trip. My next stop
was the Conciergerie where, following a thorough search of my
personal belongings, I was at last allowed in to see the place where
Marie Antoinette was imprisoned briefly before her untimely passing. Moving
along, I headed for Notre-Dame where the baguette and jam I had packed with
me made for a well-deserved lunch on the park bench just outside the
Cathedral façade. After a trip through Notre-Dame, I headed underground to
the Crypte Archeologique for a look at the Paris of old.
Upon returning to the Pompidou Center it quickly became apparent why it had
closed early the night before. The Musée National d' Art Moderne
was closed for renovation along with everything else at the "Centre Pompidou."
The escalators to the top were the all that was left open. Having struck out there I made my way to
the Musée National Picasso, which I was assured was not under renovation.
After walking countless blocks to reach it, however, a small sign informed me
that the workers were on strike for all of one day--this one. As I trudged back
to the nearest Metro station, my feet began to tire. As I stumbled off toward
the Musée Victor Hugo, I began to wonder just how important Victor Hugo
really was--I mean, to me personally. About halfway there, I decided he wasn't and
turned back. As I passed the Hôtel des Invalides where Napoleon is buried, I
stoped for a quick picture but then decided to keep on going.
Napoleon wouldn't be leaving there anytime soon I figured, and the Tour Eiffel
was still ahead!
Having missed a chance to go to the top of the
Eiffel Tower on my last trip, I
had long ago decided to do so if I was ever given the chance again. The view
was spectacular from the third-floor observatory.
I found a small place to sit and write a few postcards and then wandered down
to the first floor where I grabbed a bite to eat. By now I could barely walk.
The final tally: 10 hours,
12 major attractions, 48 pictures and 18 separate trips on the Paris Metro.
Needless to say, I didn't have any trouble getting to sleep that night.
The next day I awoke to snow which seemed to worsen the further east I rode
the RER A to Marne la Vallée-Chessy. This was my last full day, and I was
going to Disneyland! On arriving I noticed the board where they had posted
wait-times for the various attractions. In summertime I was told, the park is
routinely closed after the first 60,000 visitors are admitted. Even so, the wait
times can still be on the order of an hour or more. Today, however, I had the
park all to myself! Of course no trip to Disneyland is complete without a trip
on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad and
Pirates of the Caribbean. Though Disneyland Paris
was considerably smaller than the Disneyland parks in the
USA, it did offer a few surprises. Space Mountain,
long a staple of my childhood visits to the Los Angeles and Florida parks proved a totally new
experience. I won't ruin the surprise if you haven't been there--suffice it to
say, sales of new underwear have risen considerably in the area as a result of
this attraction.
By the following morning all of the snow had melted and the sun had reappeared in
the sky. At last, my final day had arrived. Taking my last trip across the
Siene, I began to wish I could stay much longer. So many pleasant memories,
it was hard to believe that in a few hours I would be gone. As I made my way
back to the airport, it was hard to fathom the thought that I might never return.
In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think that someday, I would return.
Someday soon.