My Only Night in Paris

4:00pm in The Vatican:

I kneel quietly in the pew in the gold room of St. Peter's church. It glows with warm splendor as candles at the altar glint off the reflecting gold relics. My mind immediately turns to my grandmother, who is ill in Oregon. I contemplate how I wanted to pray for her, whether praying for her to get better was really what she or God wants.

So, I pray.

"I just want whatever is in God's plan for her; I want her to stop suffering."

With that, I stand, light a candle, and then push through the crushed velvet curtains back into the expansive church.

7:40 in Rome Airport:

I quietly sit in an uncomfortable seat when I have a strange realization... I begin thinking of the trip. I couldn't, however, separate my thoughts and reflect since I was still in that horrible traveling mode that makes you want to push the person in front of you down the escalator. This trip seemed to determine a lot of things. It made me think about love and made me wonder about a truth I had been harboring for a long time. From that point, something had changed. Not visibly. Yet, there was an odd rift of uncertainty... I thought I was in love, at least in the capacity I knew how, yet questions still existed about my future as well as interfering factors: friends, family, school, life.

Part of me felt going to Italy would fix things one way or the other, and provide answers to various questions: should I even think about love? Was I capable of it? I was 19, and it felt like I was going on 40. So what does that mean? (I know a lot of divorced 40 year olds, and a lot of lovesick 19 year olds).

I'm an extrovert... that seems to pose a lot of problems when I seem to enjoy the company of introverts much more. I like the simplicity of an introvert (not simpleminded, just simple... not going a mile a minute like I feel I sometimes do).

And so, I arrived in Italy, no expectations about the traveling, the sites, or even school. My biggest expectation was to find some answers and to experience and accept internal change.

10:00pm on my way to Rome, heading to Paris:

I suppose the madness all started when my gate was changed. It was only a slight inconvenience, to trek the entire width of the airport in five minutes before I was supposed to board; but, it was definitely a bad omen to the string of events that I would encounter in the next six hours.

When I had heard my grandmother had passed, I had about 60 hours to get back to the states from Florence... which meant going to Rome, flying through Paris, doing a lay over in Amsterdam, flying into Minnesota, and then over to Oregon. When I began my trip from Rome, I did not yet know she had passed yet. That came later.

In addition to finding flights that matched up with this necessary schedule, the sheer amount of traveling in under three days was enough to make any person a crazy one. Furthermore, when I realized the only flight I could take from Rome to Paris was on "Baghdad Air", I was slightly relieved to find that the very attractive stewardesses gave out little croissants mid flight. I let the nomenclature fly by.

When I arrived at the Orle Paris Airport, I was slightly put out that we would once again herd into a large shuttle like cattle to slaughter as we swayed and bumped our way to the actual airport. Why they could not pull into the gate once in the six times I had to board and then deplane, I do not care. I was tired of buses, trains, planes, automobiles, taxis and people in general.

As far as people, leering men were at the top of the list. Looking down my shirt. Yes, yes, look sheepish as I pull a scarf around my neck as a tribute to you, you jerk. (Although my favorite day in Italy was the day Chris and I walked upstream during a marathon in Florence and Chris overheard one man say in Italian to another: "Quit looking at her! Run the race!" It was like something out of the American Girl in Italy photo.



(Now on a plane from Amsterdam to Minnesota. Can't help but feel like I have wasted so much time flying, training, and generally traversing in the past week... yet, feel a sense of accomplishment since I am covering thousands of miles at breakneck speed while sitting on my booty listening to my ipod. That's something, isn't it?

On another note, the plane has become a regular party flight. I am sitting in the 2nd to last row by the bathrooms, so the line has yielded into chat time as a party of twenty traveling together are now all standing with cocktails in hand like they're at a dinner party. Thirteen of them are currently bustled around me babbling in rapid German. Oh, and did I mention I am in the last row by the bathrooms? Guess how many people need to go to the bathroom on a 9 hour flight. Just guess.)

Anyway, when you left me last, I was enduring insane, unsanitary, yet, amazingly, still humorous conditions in a shuttle on the way to the airport. (ps, in flight dinner party is now leaning over me to get a better look at the first bits of Canada below us, while briefly looking at my writing... perhaps testing out their English? hopefully they haven't found that I have written an entire page on being annoyed with them. Also lucky is the fact that my writing looks like chicken scratch/boy writing anyway).

Once I had grabbed my bags, I meandered aimlessly, as I noticed nothing in the Paris airport seemed to have anything in English. I found this odd since in Italy, anything written, whether it be streets or fire safety instructions or even subway maps had the English version of the word before the native Italian word.

Finally, I located the shuttle stop that would take me to Charles De Gaulle... alas, no shuttles. Several fat, balding, red-faced, uniformed men sit outside of a small office smoking next to the shuttle stops. As I approach, I catch one's eye by pointing to the shuttle schedule in my hand. He ignores me and goes back to his cigarette and some clearly raunchy joke he was in the middle of telling. Even as I join the circle inside the office and listen for a break in the conversation to ask when the next shuttle comes, the group continues to ignore me. Eventually, it occurs to one that I am not, in fact, a fat, balding, red-faced, uniformed man coming to join my guffawing buddies, and he asks, "Mademoiselle?"

I reply gratefully, "When is the next shuttle?"

They look at each other incredulously, as if all shuttles had exploded in a headline making national news story and that I was the only idiot that hadn't heard about it in France... no, on the planet. "They're all gone, last stop hours ago." One replies in broken English. I look at my schedule which up to this moment had indicated otherwise, with one leaving at 10:30pm. My watch said 10:15. I reveal my sleuth-like skills. Yet, they still look incredulous.

"It left early," one finally volunteers. "No passengers."

"Ok... " I trail off, looking between my schedule and itinerary with confusion while slowly realizing I could yet end up in a ditch somewhere. After the ridiculousness of the Rome airport, not to mention the past week, I had reached the end of my travel agent's directions. Without a shuttle, I was stranded.

"You could take the metro," a third interjects, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "Last train for night." He points up at a large train above our heads that looks like the Elle in Chicago. Passengers were boarding.

"Hurry!" The first cries, and I would not have surprised if he had pulled out a whip and slapped me on the ass like a horse out of the starting gate.




As I finally settle in my seat with my bags flanking me and Bridget Jones in hand, the thought occurs to me that perhaps I am on the wrong metro. Second guessing is a favorite past time of mine when travelling. Getting to a place without confusion is impossible for me; nine times out of ten, I am usually in the wrong place and somehow luckily able to correct it before it is too late. In this case, it was too late. The doors were shutting and we were moving. Drat.

I look across me at the tall blond bookish looking man who had been standing next to me on the plane-to-airport shuttle. As if on cue, he pulls out his cellphone and begins conversing in soft French, as if to keep me from overhearing which prevents me from asking any further questions.

Instead of trying to stare him off the phone, I turn my eyes to a familiar diagram above his head showing the stops on the straight blue line, which was obviously this metro's schedule. My eyes follow it along each stop, only recognizing Notre Dame. At last, I see Charles DeGaulle airport; but unfortunately, the blue line splits four ways six stops before it, indicating some sort of transfer that would need to be made. I started to become worried... how would I pull that off with no French and no clue where I was going?





When my focus returns back to the Bookish Man across from me, I notice an older man now sitting next to him, not occupied by a cellphone or other conversation; he was staring at my book with a slight grin on his face. Yes, I realize reading Bridget Jones or Harry potter in Europe is ridiculous looking as an American, but I decide to break his reverie with the only French line that had insured my safe travel up to this point: "Parlez-vous anglais?"

He jumps, startled, and replies, "Only a little." He squeezes his fingers together to indicate the small amount of English he knew. Oh boy.

"Does this shuttle go to CDH?" He stares blankly. "The airport," I press.

"Uh..." He turns to the Bookish Boy (he was now off his cellphone and now donning a youthful pair of reading glasses, thus allowing him to no longer be called Bookish Man). They converse a moment in French and then Bookish Boy begins in soft English, explaining that I needed to get off at the last stop and transfer. From his tone, it seemed that transferring would be the next logical step once I arrived, so I need not be concerned. Slightly placated, though still worried, I nod and then pick up my book, only just barely missing the faint smile on Bookish Boy's face as he eyes the title. Oh bother.

The trip is uneventful, and finally it is Bookish Boy's turn to get off. As he stands, he murmurs something about it being his last stop, wishes me well, and disembarks. I turn back to my book...until I realize everyone has gotten off the train, this was the last stop, and Bookish Boy is waving at me frantically through the glass to get off the train.

"Oh my god!" I squeal, grab my bags and rush for the closing doors, just barely getting through.



"Ok," he begins as if speaking with a small child. "Here is where you transfer. Yours will be the third train." He tilts his head to the side, and speaks slowly, "Now, you must be careful. Not all trains go to Charles Degaulle." With that, he turns to follow the rush of people through the turnstiles, punching his ticket.

I go to follow him until I realize that, in a panic at the airport, I had not purchased a ticket. I could certainly step over the turnstiles as I had seen some do, but being arrested at 2am in Paris was not exactly on my travel itinerary.

Two men remain from the metro, both appearing to be metro workers. As they part, one approaches me, seeing my large bags and wide eyes dating about. "Do you need a ticket?" He asks in French.

"I'm American," I bluster, fearing his further instructions would be in French.

He sighs and leads me to a nearby ATM-like machine which I had missed before.

"Just pick destination, ok?" I nod, and he leaves quickly, off to another important metro duty, I am sure. I turn back to the machine and suddenly want to burst into tears. It is in French. Blast this stupid country and its disdain for English!

I fumble around on its touch screen until I see "Idiomas" emblazoned on the bottom. I touch it, and everything turns into English. Ahhh... I am suddenly a savvy genius and seasoned American traveler. I get a ticket and go to the turnstile to punch it. The gate does not open. I push on the gate. It still does not open. I finally realize I am holding two tickets stuck together and put the other in. Gate opens. Okay, I think, stop gloating, you are still not at the airport or hotel yet. Good grief.

I arrive at the platform to find Bookish Boy looking expectantly for me, most likely correctly assuming that I had issues getting from the train. Immediately thankful he has not left yet, I walk up and ask if he knows when my train would arrive. He explains that it is not this train but the next and it should take me all the way. I turn to ponder the schedule lit up on the board above me and while I do so, he flips open his phone to make a call and then rushes down the full width of the platform. I feel taken aback, and slightly ashamed, for being a lost obnoxious American following him. I watch him as he talks on his phone while peering at something on the wall.

Now fearful once again at being alone and confused, I look back at the flashing board, trying to discern my next moves. Suddenly, Bookish Boy is at my side flipping his phone shut.

"I called one of my friends who lives near your stop. I was in fact wrong after consulting the map down there, " he gestures. "Take the next train." He hastily puts his phone away and then puts out his hand. "I'm Charles."

"I'm Rachel, thank you so much for your help!" I gush. He smiles meekly.

Soon, the train arrives and we board. He was very shy about his English, so our conversation is a bit laborious as he would only speak once he had worked out the correct tense and grammatically perfect sentence. I found myself speaking too fast as I was sick of my inner monologue and glad to have some one to speak to, but eventually slowed down when I realized I had to repeat nearly every sentence so that he could understand. We talk about college and his PHD thesis on Noam Chomsky, his thoughts on the war in Serbia, and President Bush. (Of course, you cannot come to France without being accosted by political theorists wondering if Americans really liked their tyrant of a president. Sometimes, I considered just telling people I was from Canada.)

All the while as we stood swaying on the train, sharing travelling stories, career plans, and dismantling his misconceptions of "Boring Minnesota", a tall black man stared openly at me. I was eventually uncomfortable as Americans are easy targets for theft, and he would not avert his eyes from me or my luggage even while I stared back at him. I was further bothered when Charles got off at his stop after saying goodbye, leaving me alone in the car, with the tall man staring at me, and me staring at the ceiling.

This was briefly alleviated when three large men with huge diamonds in their ears, sideways caps, baggy sweatshirts, carrying some shopping bags with designer labels on them traipsed onto the train. Suddenly, they surrounded me, speaking in rapid French to each other but gesturing at me. I could tell they were annoyed, because it appeared they were asking me questions but I had no idea what was being said.

"I speak English," I blurted once again. "I don't understand what you are saying!"

"English!" They each exclaimed.

"Brit-ish then, righto," one aped loudly.

I smiled until I saw the tall man behind them still staring at me. "No, American."

They laughed uproariously. "American!!" one jeered. "Where you from?"

"Minnesota."

They all became silent. "Minn-e-sot-ahhh," one sounded out, looking perplexed.

"By Canada," I explained, at which I got knowing nods.

"By New Jersey then?" One carrying a Lacoste shopping bag said.

I started to giggle. This was getting silly, and I was so tired, I felt punch drunk. I gave up trying to explain and asked them about their shopping bags. One laughed:

"Oh, is some one trying to get us to carry her luggage?"

At this point, the train had stopped, and we were at my stop. They gave me directions to the next train, only after asking me to join them clubbing the next night. I gave a flippant smile, said, "Au revoir!" and went with bags in hand. They seemed harmless, but I was thankful for the opportunity for a graceful exit nonetheless. As the doors shut, I could hear them catcalling me.

As I began to walk, I suddenly became aware that the tall African man was now walking very closely behind me. I turned slightly back to him, caught his eye, and then sped up. He quickened his step, and I nearly yelped when he reached out and grabbed my arm.

"You are going the wrong way." He intoned, letting go of my arm. "They give wrong directions. This is your train." I followed him over two platforms away from where I originally thought I was going.

"Get off in two stops. O.K.?" I nodded mutely, still shaken. He nodded, satisfied that he had sent me on the correct path.

"O.K. Goodbye." He walked away slowly, gesturing for me to go through the train doors that were now opening in front of me.

I walked into the train, sat down and stared at his back as he glided away from me. By far, I thought, the person tonight who saved me from peril was the one person I thought was going to rob me. I shook my head, upset with myself. I looked up at the diagram above me. Two stops to go, and I will be at my destination.

Once I was in CDH, I again was wandering aimlessly, trying to find some sort of bus, shuttle, or cab to take me to the nearby hotel. It was like de ja vu, for I saw another group of men guffawing outside the front of the airport, yet these men were in plain clothes. I was unsure whether to approach, since this seemed a little bit more of a possibly unsafe situation. Still, there was no one nearby, so I walked up to the men, asking how I could get to my hotel.

Instead of the run-around I had gotten before, a small older, curly headed man in stone washed jeans, a plaid shirt and a light jacket stepped forward. He looked like something out of an old 80's TV series. "Come with me." He turned on his heel and started to walk. I looked expectantly at the men in the circle for any indication of where this man was taking me, but they were back to their conversation. Well, I thought, I haven't ended up in a ditch yet. So, I followed.

The man brought me down a flight of stares to a dimly lit area. As we came down, I realized he was bringing me to the cab waiting area. After speaking to the first cab we came to, he simply put my bags in the cab, and shut the door behind me as a I clambered in. With that, he slapped the trunk of the car and turned quickly to head up the stairs. "Thank you!" I shouted at his disappearing shoes.



The ride to the hotel was a relief, but terrifying as well. The driver spoke in jumbled English, while swearing at other drivers in French. We were soon going at least 100 miles down the motorway, with me clutching my bags. If I die on this highway, I thought, it would be the most ridiculous end to this seemingly endless night. When he opened the door and handed me my bags, I pulled out my wallet.

"No charge," he said gruffly, and then hopped back into the cab.

"What...wait..." I started, but he was already pulling away. I turned back to the hotel and walked in. Interesting place, Paris is. I wondered briefly why he hadn't charged me, whether the man at the airport had told him not to, or he was just being kind to a lost American girl. Inside, I check in and then bought a Fanta and a boxed sandwich from a vending machine and went up to my room.

I set my bags down and went over to the phone and dialed. My father picked up instantly. It was now four in the morning in Paris, and fat tears rolled down my cheeks as he told me that my grandmother had passed away in her sleep. After calling my mother, I slowly got undressed and crawled into bed, pulling a pillow close to my chest and cried until I fell asleep. The last thoughts I had were of the night: Charles, the tall African man, and a kind cab driver. As I drifted off, I stopped myself from worrying about getting to the airport tomorrow and the lay over in Amsterdam. Something was protecting me, and I knew I need not worry.