Well this has been quite the travel day. Which really feel like days, People. Ah. Jet lag. I am so damn out of it.
WTF, JetZone? I think you failed me. However.
Flight was fantastic. We really were in an Exit Row — TC, ever the skeptic, didn’t believe it till we were actually sitting down with four feet to spare. I also want to interject that it was about this time {so immediately} that TC took my beloved neck pillow. Nevermind the fact that I asked him 9348309483098 times if he wanted to get one before we left.
NO, those GD things hurt my neck. I never use them.
Right. Except mine. The one he decided was ah-mazing and used the entire flight. That left me having that weird neck/head bob and pretty much just gave up on any hope of sleep.
Thank you, Air France, for providing most excellent entertainment options. Five hours of Downtown Abbey was truly a dream come true. No, I mean it, People — it was.
And I’m not exactly sure what the hell psychotropic I took the other day when I was all, let me get my church crawl on and pray and feel all holy and good for no really good reason except sitting my ass in a church that Louis the XIII laid the stones for.
Because, People. The day has been nothing of the sort.
We ended up at the airport for hours — I think I reached an all time new high {or maybe low?} falling asleep at baggage claim. Hey, they do have comfy chairs, for baggage claims, that is.
Then took forevvveeerrr getting our RER tickets, where I stopped and asked a minimum of 11 Frenchies for five Euro coins in exchange for a five Euro bill.
Come on! Like not one out of eleven had change. In true orderly French fashion, the one change machine they have, broke down and all automated ticket machines were rejecting credit cards. There’s a winning combo for you.
The result was one of the scariest lines I’ve seen since The Louvre on a free holiday {and let me assure you, that’s a looooooot of peeps}.
We know Taurus don’t do no damn lines. I’m not really sure what Taurus it is that is patient, because waiting in line, any line? That could be a form of self torture for me.
Just dealing with Krogering lines is pushing the envelope, so me with horrible jet lag, a headache from no caffeine and a father about to throw another tantrum … these are motivators, People.
Great motivators. Never give up. Just get sneaky. It took me hitting up three different places and buying trashy French mags — France’s UsWeekly equivalent is so much more racy and just straight up unpublishable over here. NaturallyI love it — to finally get 19 Euro coins to get our f-ing RER billets.
Get on the RER and am immediately reminded why I tried to pull “le taxi” on TC. TC, while not admitting it, I know was thinking, WTF le taxi, damn me.
It’s really nothing against the RER {because it is a rocking part of public transit}, this is more me raging against the dirty nastiness of it. It’s just a bad feeling peeps when you even look at something and the sight of it makes you want to immediately burn your clothes and scrub your entire body down.
Tell me this isn’t just me who has this happen to them. You can totally lie. I don’t care if you don’t mean it. I just care that you help me make me feel better about me.
I decided to forgo switching from our RER line at Gare du Nord and opted for Chalet, to pick up le métro. I knew it’d be a way easier switch and shorter walk.
What I didn’t consider was that our tickets might not work. Never a good feeling to be at a busy métro stop in the afternoon, with what feels like hundreds of people behind you, waiting to put their ticket in and yours is the one that doesn’t work.
The pressure that is, People! So I have to back up into a bunch of rushing Frenchies and that makes me feel even clumsier than I already am, and nervous and stressed and there’s never a good way to back that ass up {Juvenile, anyone?} with a suitcase and a carry on that practically outweighs your suitcase and a handbag.
And wtf, are we going to do! No ticket window. No one around. TC on verge of tantrum/breakdown/childish outburst #5, so what’s my brilliant plan?
Get back in line and follow as close as we can to the person in front of us — because I realized that there’s a brief delay — enough of a delay that if you’re quick moving, can allow for two people to go through on one ticket.
I get through and right as I’m turning around to make sure TC snuck through, too, I see the dreaded doors closing in on his suitecase and arm.
Yes, he got stuck in the metro ticket doors. Right smack dab between them. The sight of it was so f-ing funny that all I could do was stand there laughing. I couldn’t even think of helping him. I mean, I did, but not at first. It was just too hysterical. And the kind Frenchies behind him ended up putting a ticket in to release him. I thought it was very thoughtful and noble of them to do.
I think that was enough excitement for TC in one day, let alone one métro station, so he was anxious to arrive at our apartement and take a nap.
Except when we get here, there’s people here. They were supposed to have left in the morning but ended up delaying their departure till early evening. I was thoroughly confused and felt thoroughly incompetent with the French language.
You know it’s bad when you go to speak a foreign language and the person you’re talking to squints and narrows their eyes, head turned down at the side. As though maybe they’ll be able to magically understand you better with the ear turned slightly out.
I blame this on jet lag. Give me two days and I’ll be hanging with any conversation, and that will be even prior to vino consumption.
To make this long story short — we didn’t get to rest till 4p.m. I set my alarm for 5. We went out and hit up Le Monoprix for some food necessities and FNAC because omfg what did I forget? My internet cable. Yeah. Just a little important.
Felt utterly redeemed at FNAC when I asked where I could find internet cables and there was no eye squinting whatsoever and I didn’t even have to ask a répétez s’il vous plait, after I was given instructions to go to the third floor, left side of the escalator.
I did briefly show TC the ‘hood. You know, pointing out Gertrude and Hemingway. I suddenly feel I’ve gone up a step or 17 on the neighbor front. Not that there’s anything wrong with my neighbors! I have great neighbors … but … um … Hemingway is Hemingway. What can compete with having his beloved Paris apartment within eyesight?
Tomorrow will be for my holiness and churches and who knows what else. We have no plan and I am allowing myself to sleep in. Waking up to a day ahead of me in the place that feels like a true homecoming. Can you imagine how pumped Higher Self is? Very.
Bonne nuit et beaux reves, mes lovelies.