Gay Paris

Mes amis! Je suis a Paris, France et j'adore cet pays! My plane landed at about 8:20 Saturday morning, and I realized immediately that the original plan - to meet Lauren at her gate - was unrealistic and, well, stupid. The Charles de Gualle airport is separated into what I thought was two buildings, but turned out to be three. Buses shuttle travelers between them and I had no idea, of course, which terminal her Dutch airline was flying into.

The second plan, cleverly devised by Gerry last week, was to take a shuttle - he thinks "it's the number 2 bus, or it used to be" - to the terminal where the metro/bus/train station is and meet at the sandwich shop on the lower level - "not the upper level, there's a sandwich shop there too," he warned. When I landed I realized that this plan too was not going to go as smoothly as anticipated. I loaded my two heavy bags onto a luggage cart and roamed around for thirty minutes, not really knowing where to go or what to do next. Everyone was speaking French. Pas anglais? Qu'est qui se passe? I saw that there were shops on the lower level of the terminal I was in, #1, so I pushed my cart to an elevator and found a sandwich shop. No Gerry.

I had to regroup. I schlepped my cart back upstairs and decided to find a bus. I pushed my cart out to a curb and waited for the #1 bus to take me to Terminal 2, but it just didn't feel right. Gerry said the # 2 bus, not the # 2 terminal. I saw the bus. I let it pass and dragged my bag across the street and back into Terminal 1, cursing Gerry all the while. I looked at the airport map for the tenth time and discovered a Terminal 3, to which bus #2 shuttled passengers. It was also the metro/train/bus terminal. Eureka! That must be it. I went back to the curb.

Terminal 3 had a sandwich shop. It had several sandwich shops, in fact. What it did not have was a lower level. And, of course, Gerry and Co. were nowhere to be seen. At this point it was close to 11 p.m. and I was pissed. "I hate Gerry," was my mantra, and it was running on a continual loop inside my head, interrupted only briefly by hopeful thoughts when I would see a new sandwich shop (or revisit an old one, just in case).

I think it was here that I had a brief moment of panic. I saw someone who looked like a friend from home (I'll never tell who). My heart leapt involuntarily, a fleeting feeling followed immediately by a wave of sadness and panic. I'M NOT, N-O-T, NOT FLUENT IN FRENCH AND I DON'T KNOW ANYONE HERE. OMG! I SPEAK EVEN LESS ARABIC, WHAT WAS I THINKING?! I called the apartment to find out from Nanci if Gerry and our other roommates had left the airport and made it to the apartment already. A woman answered but she couldn't hear me. I hung up, and my credit card was charged 1.50 Euros (about $2.75) for a whole lot of nothin.

By noon I was exhausted. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane and it was now 6 in the morn in the U.S. I checked one final sandwich shop and then hailed a cab - a sleek, black Mercedes with leather seats and GPS.

Nanci greeted me at the apartment, and I've never been more happy to see her. Gerry and Kathleen arrived about fifteen minutes after me, and I was still moderately pissed, even though I knew it was irrational. They had flown into Terminal 2 and easily found the sandwich shop in question - which has to be the only one in the whole freaking airport that I haven't visited - on the lower level of that terminal. What happened to bus #2, huh, Gerry? What's this business about the terminal where the metro/bus/train station is? These are the questions I wanted answered. At any rate, Lauren didn't find them either and had an experience similar to mine. She made it to the apt. about five minutes after Gerry and Kathleen.

But, we made it. We're all here. We went out last night to celebrate this extraordinary feat. I was hoodwinked and molested by a French man for the second time in my young life. The bartender was pouring shots for two guys on the other side of the bar. Then said barkeep started to light them (the shots, not the guys). I was mesmerized by this show - the flames licking the length of a long row of caramel-colored shots - and they (the guys, not the shots) started to wave Lauren and I over. She went and I followed. They handed us the tiny beverages and, to make a long story short, one guy proceeded to stick his unwelcome tongue down my very virtuous and unwilling throat. Bienvenu a Paris.

We went back to our side of the bar where my roommates laughed and laughed. L. and I had one last encounter with the perpetrators outside the bathroom, but she scared them away with a barrage of Spanish. She doesn't speak francais, and she and Kathleen think it perfectly acceptable to speak to the Frenchies en espanol. It's not exactly right, but it's close, non?

We ended up at a much more fun hookah bar where the onslaught continued with another aggressive French man, who called me "tres, tres belle," which was altogether endearing, and who asked us if we did coke, which was not.

Not at all sure why they call this "gay Paris."

So, it's been an adventure. That's all I have for now. Today I slept til 3 p.m. and went to a gathering at our instructor's house at 4 p.m. Tonight we walked the narrow streets of an area called Le Marais. It was amazing, absolutely beautiful and altogether different from the U.S. More on this later maybe, now I haveto go to bed. It's late, and I think I'm still jet lagged. Bonsoir. xoxo.

p.s. I have posted some photos on snapfish. If you'd like to see them, I can send you an invite via e-mail. Just let me know.