I’m in love with Paris. No it’s not some juvenile affair, some lusty hypnotism, or indigestion. It’s true passion and adoration for a magnificent city. Actually being in Paris rekindled all of the reeling daydreams in which I used to indulge even before the days of French language study three times a week. The clothes, the food, the smells, and of course, the architecture. For all of my creativities, architecture is among my most persuasive of muses. Somehow it breathes new life into me and re-awakens my senses. One glance at the Eiffel tower glittering then glowing on the brink of morning and I was a puddle of romance on the pebble laden path below me, but I suppose I’m jumping ahead of myself.
Cait and I met at Kings cross three hours before our 20:05 train was scheduled to depart. We quickly rushed by the longest Champaign bar in Europe; grabbed a disgustingly British sandwich, a cookie and a blossomy beverage that seemed to be supersaturated in sucrose and headed down to wait for our security queue to open. When it opened, we shuffled through and waited below the platforms for our train to arrive. We boarded and departed on time – me with a childish giddiness that was a bit bigger than my organic shell. Unbeknownst to me, I would have a long, strenuous 10 additional hours on the train for that excitement to build, die, and be reborn several times over.
Yes, the chunnel, approximated to take 2 hours and some change took a gruelling 12 hours due to numerous complications, delays, and train changes in the middle of the night, wee hours, and proper morning. I’m not sure if I had more fun contorting my body in attempt to coax it to sleep in a 2nd class coach seat or tripping over people’s feet and luggage at five in the morning as we trudged down the carriages, baggage and all toward the forward end of the train only to board yet another Eurostar for an exciting complimentary item-free journey through countryside nowhere France.
9 AM, we arrive, crumpled, sore, and starving. We are greeted by a mob of Parisian press who interviewed me as though I had just witnessed a plane crash, and then we were off. We found the hotel, dropped off our things and set out on a walking venture to find French perfume, ballet slippers, timeless pieces of clothing with Parisian flair, and a patisserie where we could eat our weight in French carbohydrates which are less pretentious than American carbohydrates though far superior indeed. We found an adorable little café where we spent a fraction of our disintegrating afternoon outside watching people pass on their bikes and in their awkward black European shoes. We made it over to the shopping area in time for the soles of our feet to be worn off completely, and thought it best to catch a 17:00 metro back, and fall asleep promptly at 18:00 after grabbing a lovely tuna baguette which ever so graciously gave me food poisoning that set in around 23:00.
Treading carefully so as to recover from my weakness, we decided to go to Disneyland Paris as the morning escaped us completely. We jumped on the RER and set out for a lovely day among characters, patrons, attractions, and children (all which are more attractive through a Francophone filter).
As the crowd filed out of the closing park, I decided that I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t see the Eiffel tower lit in all of its glory, nor could I sleep at night without at least strolling by the Louvre, so we walked from God knows where to the Louvre and then the Eiffel tower in the pouring rain, and then, also in the pouring rain, three kilometres back to our hotel plus an additional kilometre in the wrong direction for good measure. Believe it or not, I had an amazing time on our glorious trek, in fact I was halfway skipping and halfway floating on a cloud, even if it had to be a rain cloud.
The next day we packed our belongings and made it to the front desk as the clock struck “check-out.” We boarded the metro, set off for city centre to snap a few shots of the sights in daylight, and set off for the Champs Elysees where we indulged in photo ops and a lovely French lunch that lasted all afternoon before heading back to the train station. We found that we had arrived three hours early once again and waltzed across the street to a lovely establishment whose signs promised café au lait. We sat there for a couple of hours as the maitre di attempted to persuade me to marry him and kept speaking to me in French, aggravating the already annoying Cait who has many bits and pieces of language under her belt, but unfortunately, French is not among them. As the hour aged on, we decided to make waves over to the train station once again to buy some Bordeaux and find our seats. As we boarded the train I couldn’t help but feel extremely sad that we were leaving.
I know, poor Jenny having to return to London, please don’t bruise her emotional frame with sarcastic slurs of sympathy hurled across the sea. I won’t complain, but I know that the city that holds my heart is out there, ringing with melodies of accordions and chimes, and I know that I have not had my fill.
