Number Four

In our last episode...

Scott and I were wandering around Charles de Gualle with no money and no hope.  I had just been told by a rather, okay...I’ll admit...snippy French woman, (who was tremendously stunning by the way), “Number four.”

As I walked back over to Scott, I was sick to my stomach.  How would I tell him that there was no answer to our dilemma?  As I walked across the way, I suddenly noticed something.  It was a huge number six, painted on the wall by a door to the outside.  If there was a number six, maybe, just maybe, there would be a number four!

With all confidence I told him we had to just keep walking until we saw a number four printed on the wall.  We walked and walked, and when we saw the number four, we felt like we had found Oz. As we approached, there it was, an ATM!  Eureka!

We got in the long line, behind people from many different countries.  Again, they all seemed to know the drill.  When it was finally our turn, we were so timid!  We gently inserted our card, and followed the directions as best we could.  Suddenly, I had a terrible thought!  Obviously, this machine would know we were using an American bankcard.  Wouldn’t the machine just “decide” that we wanted US dollars?  My mind was still not wrapped around the fact that we were on “french” turf.  

My stomach was in knots.  

As the machine clicked and hummed, it was like I was waiting on my first child to be born.  Much to my surprise and utter happiness, out came 500 EUROS!

The relief...the euphoria...I could’ve gotten back on the plane and come home, and really felt like I accomplished something.

Are you thinking I’m crazy yet?  This was only the beginning.  

We were the Ma and Pa Kettle of France!

By now we had been at the airport at least an hour.  With money in clinched fists, it was off to the taxis.  You don’t even want to know what my fear of taxi’s are...but of course I’m going to tell you anyway.

1. They are only out to over-charge you.

2. They are only out to take you to dark places, rob, and murder you.

I don’t know where I get this stuff, but it’s honestly what goes through my head.  I know it goes through your head too...admit it!

I had read in my guide book to make sure to get in the correct taxi line, that there are fake taxi’s sometimes at the airport. “Fake taxis?”  What kind of a country is this?  

     

We went to the “Taxi” exit, and even though none of the cars had official markings, we decided this had to be the official line.  Truth be told, we had/saw no other options.  We watched one by one, as taxis drove up, and whisked off the other tourists...

Finally, an Asian man drove up in a very small taxi, and asked us where we wanted to go, (call me crazy, but I expected him to be French).  We loaded our bags, and crawled into the backseat.  I gave him the address three times loudly, and he just kept staring. 

Snare!  

Just when we thought we would be leaving the airport....

P.S. Not really our taxi, and official taxis do have a light on top, just like in America.

All photos taken on the Champs-Elysees. 

French Soil at Last

We’ve Arrived!

My mind was swirling. Part nerves, part jet lag, and part just plain old fashioned FEAR, (there’s that ugly word again). We had just landed at Charles de Gualle airport. This was it! We were on French soil.

The weeks leading up to this moment seemed far, far, off in the distance. At first it seemed this day would never come, and now it was here, and I did not feel ready. Riding around in my car with my CD’s, I felt quite confident in my French speaking skills. Now, my mouth was so dry, I couldn’t form a french sentence if I tried.  

In this photo, Scott and I are about to board our flight.  Notice how well rested we look.  I only wish I had a

 picture of how we looked at 7am Paris time, the next morning.  It was not pretty.  

Now I must explain. At this point, Scott only brought me to Paris to humor me, (and make me shut-up).  Every detail of this trip had been planned by me, completely winging it. I made a good show of being a Paris expert, but in my heart I knew better. As we exited the plane, the list in my mind was long and confusing...find customs, get bags, get euros, find a taxi, etc.  Scott takes the lead in our lives in America, now it was my turn.

We followed the crowd and things were going pretty well.  The first thing I noticed, was that none of the signs were in English. For some reason, this surprised me, and continued to for the rest of our trip.

Secondly, everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing.  I felt like Scott and I were floating around whichever way we were pulled.  

Bags...check.  Customs...check.  Now we needed some money.  I had read over and over that it’s best to exchange money in France, that American airports charge too much. Scott thought we should get some in Philidelphia, I insisted we wait.  So here we were, walking around the airport, penniless.  The money-exchange places weren’t open yet.  We needed to find an ATM.  We searched and searched.  Nothing!

As Scott gave me the evil eye, I had visions of having to spend our entire vacation in the airport.  Without euro, no cab.  I realized I was going to have to ask... a French person!  Just the thought intimidated me to no end.  I noticed a woman at a rental car desk.  As I walked over to her, I felt like I was walking the plank.  From all my research, I knew to greet her properly, in french.  But as I walked toward her, I felt like a fraud.  One word, and she would know.  So, I just looked at her and said very timidly, 

“Cash machine?” 

 She yawned.  I asked again.  She rolled her eyes. I guess she realized I wasn’t leaving, and she said, as if in pain, “Number four.”  

That was it...number four. As I walked back over to Scott, I was about to cry. 

What did number four mean? 

The woman wasn’t rude, not exactly.  I knew the “rules” and I ignored them.  Mental note to self...always start with a greeting; when in France, do as the French; they can smell timidity a mile away. For the rest of the trip, I followed the rules carefully, and it was like a magic key.  It opened the door to everything!  People began to bend over backwards to make us happy.  At the heart of it, I found the French very shy, but very happy to help. 

Have you figured out yet, what number four means?  ;-)

 

Somewhere in Between~

       I'm on an airplane, circling, circling, circling; the repetitiveness of the movement, mind-numbing.  The plane never seems to be going anywhere.  I peer through the window, and as if I'm looking through the long lens of a telescope, I see a woman below, on planet Earth.  She is busy going about her day, doing laundry, cleaning house, checking email, running errands.  She laughs, she cries, she's bored, she's excited.  All human emotions are observed as I watch her.  She seems quite happy, and appears to have all she could ever want, and more.  As I'm about to look away, something catches my attention.  I see a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes that I hadn't noticed before.  I wonder…what is she thinking? Why the absentminded smile on her face?  With one last look, I'm startled with recognition…it's me!  It's a dream. I'm on the plane, and on the earth at the same time.  Three hundred and fifty days a year, I feel like I'm aboard a plane, circling over my life, in a holding pattern.   It's not that my life is uneventful, or unimportant, but sometimes the predictability of it, lacks a sense of wonder and surprise.  No matter how hard I try, I cannot recapture the patina, the stunning beauty, the graceful elegance, of a city I love far, far away.  As the last page is torn out of my date book, it's September again.  At just the right moment, the plane banks gradually into a turn, flying through a puffy cloud.  I look over at my seatmate, the love of my life.  We smile and clink our glasses of French champagne together.  Finally, the plane is heading east, to the city we love, to the city we've been aching to return to…Paris, France.