Summertime in Paris

It's quite a shock to be back here. Not only is the weather a stark difference (from soft white snowy landscapes to blazing please-let-me-take-my-clothes-off-now heat), but so are the people -- so is the atmosphere: it's tourist season. I thought I was going to arrive this time remembering the Paris I loved, the Paris I was comfortable with, but this time Paris seems unfamiliar and most of all, it seems aggressive. It's fairly baffling that I've just spent perhaps the twelve most uncomfortable hours on an overcrowded, noisy, germ-infested plane. The most comfortable position that I managed to contort myself in felt like my neck was going to dislocate and my ass nerves were dying a slow and uneventful death while the not-so-adorable mammoth lung-sized French kids behind me were kicking and screaming into the back of my headrest. Their parents looked off in the distance of their in-flight showing of "Valentine's Day", disinterested, and pretending as though their offspring weren't the foghorns of Aisle 23. Don't even get me started on how the airline freaking schemes to kill off each and every one of their passengers through methods of dehydration. And when they do manage to find an inkling of compassion within their hearts, they pour you about 1/4 cup of warm water and swiftly continue their trek down the styrofoam pillow and trash-laden aisle. They do this because they want to be out of earshot when you gulp down the precious drops of water. They run away plugging their ears singing, "Can't hear you! La! La! LA!" as you gently whisper "please ma'am...may I have some more?" followed by a meek and barely discernible cough. Airlines are cruel. But I didn't have to wait to land at Charles de Gaulle to be in Paris, I was pretty much there already. Everyone on the flight spoke French, including the stewardesses. In fact, I felt judged because I was still speaking in English. I don't know what it is. I know exactly how to respond, it's just always a second too late and it comes out in a jumble, so instead of speaking, I just keep quiet. There you go. The helplessness that only a language barrier can provide already began on my own soil. I couldn't shake the feeling of inadequacy. It just plagued my thoughts and my tongue to paralyzation. When I did get off the plane though, that was a different story.

The Roissy -> Opéra shuttle bus seemed like the only drop off without a sign. After circling the terminal a couple of times I finally just asked an information desk and the woman said I just paid le "chauffeur." So I went to the waiting point. And waited. And waited. Twice I saw the bus drive on by. The bus I needed to get on. Like everything in France, there is no logic to schedules. So the third time the bus passed by, I followed it. I followed it with my 50 pound backpack messengerbag, and 495 pound luggage. Only to see it disappear on a ramp. When I finally admitted defeat and slumped back to the waiting area, I realized that the bus wasn't stopping because there was a car in its "designated bus space." When I finally got on the bus, I thought the worst was over. It wasn't. It took about an hour and a half of traffic only to get to the center of Paris, but I needed to get to the southeast. I had to drag that same 495 pound luggage up and down Parisian metro stairs while strategically dodging all the tropical shirt-wearing tourists. About 8 metro stops later, I faced my final behemoth: 5 flights of stairs. As I stood at the bottom, looking up, God granted me favor because a kind French man (and you thought that was an oxymoron) asked me if I needed help, and breathless, I managed to whisper, "oui...s'il....vous...plait.." Without another word, he grabbed my luggage handle, while I grabbed the other, and together we braved the stairs. When I was ready to graciously grovel at his feet, he pointed to more stairs and said, "Il y en a encore." 5 deadly words. Once we made it to the top, I whimpered a couple of "merci monsieur"s to which he replied, "de rien" and walked away. If you've ever been to Paris, you'd know the state of shock I was in, because that virtually never happens. Ever.

I gathered myself and began walking towards 102 rue Reuilly. What I saw before me looked like a casualty of war. A run down building with a permanent homeless man who likes Orangeade installed at the front door. When I pushed through the gates, a tall middle-aged French man greeted me and asked me if I knew any students there. I said no, and then he stared at me blankly, saying, "Well. What do you want?"

Imagine my horror in hearing those words. I had just travelled 12 hours + 3 getting from the airport to this sh*tstorm of a place, and you ask me what I want? I want to sit down, damn it! I calmly tell him that a woman named Anna Marie set a room up for me in his Residences and that she told me a man named Phillippe was expecting me. Of course he did that Parisian thing and pretended like he knew all along and just to screw with you a little more gave you a look of complete and utter dis-recognition, until finally something clicks, "OH YEAH, I WAS EXPECTING TO HOUSE SOMEONE TODAY." He led me quite brusquely up to the eighth floor. The interior was just as gloomy as the exterior. The elevator had etchings of bored and drunk teenager souvenirs on it. We walked down to the end of a long corridor of trash bags left out for someone -- the pigeons perhaps -- to collect. We stopped at 801. The door creaked and as it opened, the smell of stale pasta and wet wood hit me like a glade plug-in. We walked into a sad.... sad... room. I don't know how else to describe it. It was hot. My bed looked like a cot. My desk looked like it had been taken in off the street, and a mini kitchenette. Before I could ask any more questions, he was gone. "Ask Anna Marie" he replied.

Slam.

I looked around at my prison room.
"I could adapt to this" as tears welled up in my eyes.
"I... could" I choked.
Why the hell was I acting like this? I felt such an overwhelming sense of loneliness.
Like everything was far, far, far away.
But I've never felt like this. For once, Paris has been stripped of its beautiful mask, and
I saw the dark underbelly that I always knew was there. I could barely pull myself together,
and I felt like a fool. Who the heck cries when they get to Paris? Someone who is running
on low patience and 1 hour of sleep, maybe. But I couldn't rest. I needed to unpack and
meet Anna Marie for my orientation. It took every ounce of energy just to get myself moving.

I wound up being early to the meeting, so I just bought some necessities and sat down at a park.
It seems though, that I'm a very interesting person that everyone wants to talk to, because as soon as I sat down on the grassy knoll, some guy comes up to me and starts interrogating me like he had a right to know everything about me. I just wanted to sleep.

I met up with Anna Marie. I just wanted to sleep.
She basically told me I needed to suck it up and deal with it.
I just wanted to sleep.

I start at 7:15 am tomorrow morning,
with expectations that I have the experience of a bakery apprentice of 2 years
and excellent French to work in the front and the back.

I don't know how I'm going to pull this out of my ass, but I'm going to shower and call it a long day.

Hello.
Paris.