Landed

Salut Maman, Salut Papa!

Moi e mandy arrive a Paris tu jour a say manufique!

Mandy will correct that sooner, rather than later.

So, we have landed and we're getting settled and sorting out where we're staying. we have a hostel booked and we've just got to find it.

tonight there are fireworks to see at the tour d'eiffel which we will go see; there are cafe's at the cafe which we will go drink; and there is french to be so we are going to be it.

i am learning multo frenchazie dopo arrive a paris. however, i am speaking tropo italiano and languaging up my mixes.

a biento,

sweater and shirt

packing for paris was scant i had to carry my machine*, which goes with me everywhere, which leaves little room for much else. three shirts, the pair of pants i was wearing, underwear and socks to last five days (3 of each), a book, a camera, a journal and a pocket full of dreams.

(some dude just dropped his smokes on the floor)

my sweater, the sweater, was not on the list. it was on the list until the pack was too heavy and i took the sweater off the list. i should have just lightened my load by first not writing the list on granite rock and, more importantly, subsititing the list for the sweater it's self as it wears substancially less than a list written on granite rock. i wouldn't have done it if simon birch hadn't sold me on the idea, highlighting the versatilty of the product.

(some dude won't listen to me get his attention so he can have his smokes back)

not having the sweater meant that i wore my winter coat everywhere with just a couple of t-shirts underneath, which was fine except that i was hot on the street and cold in the shops. i should have packed my sweater, the sweater.

(some dude the third notices the smokes and i throw a thumb in some dudes direction)

as i was checking out of paris i made a few last friends at the terminal while i went through the scanner system. to get through the scanner system i had to my carry-on, keys, wallet, change, belt and my coat even. i successfully set off the scanner and was then subjected to that test they do to see if you're magnetic. the wand didn't stick to me as they waved it around and i was free to go about my day. i suppose i am thankful that they do these tests because i wouldn't want magnetic people getting on the plane and messing with the controls or causing my wallet cards to demagnitise.

i hadn't thought about it that morning, mostly because i don't register thought until about the noon hour and morning had somehow found me at around the 6:30 mark, but i had really dressed to impress. i hadn't noticed until i had successfully fooled the magnet detector and moved towards my gear to reassemble myself. i felt an arm on mine and was turned around and thuroughly examined by a french (female) guard. she looked at me and smirked a bit and kind of did a little jig. i kid you not, a jig.

smirking, she called to another guard. french french french she said, to the best of my knowledge, to her. french french french came the reply. the french (female) guard did her jig again this time singing what was written on my shirt. she then asked me what it meant and carried on doing the jig. by this time i had assembled myself, with left over parts for some reason but that always happens with things you assemble yourself, and was awkwardly moving towards my nearest exit.

as i smiled to myself everybody poops, everybody poops, everybody everybody everybody poops followed me down the hall.

Murray's Law states:

the metro is organized very well. this became apparent to me several days after my first. on my first day the metro was a terrifying french place and i was in no way prepared for what followed following my little friend. as he led me through the labyrinth beneath the city we passed by buskers and bag-people and other characters that seemed to have jumped from the pages of a neil gaiman novel. Little Friend jumped and wove through the crowd and before long we came upon the great gates of the subway world: the turnstiles. a friend of mine took me on the toronto subway ... rather he took me to the toronto subway ... he left me with a bit of wonderful advice:

turnstiles are bad

and to this day that still runs through my head every time i come by one. he told me this because going through a turnstile means you are leaving the system and i'd have to pay to get in again.

to make this story shorter than it will be if i don't take evasive action i shall abbreviate it by highlighting the main points, appropriately enough, in point form.

• he had a metro membership. i did not. he used his to get me through. and used mine to jump over the turnstile.
• we took a train for a bit. in the end i didn't want to get off. i was happy, didn't want to leave and was perfectly content.
• we changed trains.
• please see point 2 for how i felt about train 2
• after train two and said our goodbyes Little Friend and I were at station 3, still very much at a loss for the inability to communicate. An American was near by and heard our difficulties and came to my rescue.
• as American was helping me along I was very much unaware that Little Friend was no longer at my side; alas, I did not get to thank him.

my stop came two trains later but brought me about as near to my bed for the evening as a person is near to discovering which end of the garbage bag they are holding is the open end. Murphy says it is never the first end, and then goes on to say that it is always the first end just never the first time you try it. I walked to both ends of the street and spoke with several people few of whom knew of a hostel on that road, all of whom felt i was heading the right direction and none of whom could agree on how far i should walk until i might catch it. my favourite was the woman working at a real estate agency who told me to go 500 m up the street and then ask someone who turned out to work across the street from the hostel i was booked at. i was told this 500 m up the street by the someone i asked.

i dropped in to tell her where the hostel was so she could be of more help to the next person but she no longer spoke english.

my little friend

i was standing outside an opera house that was circled on my map with a strong desire to be back in the airport where i felt strangely at home, and after my german friends had walked away i felt as if i may not find somewhere that could feel like a home for a few days. so i did what anyone in my situation would have done.

i walked up to a strange little man who had been standing on my corner. i did this reluctantly, i might add, because this corner had become my corner after everyone i knew on it had vacated it.

i was happy at this corner.
i didn't want to leave.
i was perfectly content.

but because the strange little french man was not carrying a backpackers bag that he had borrowed from a friend back home he was the perfect candidate to show me where i was to go. but when i went up to say hello to my little french friend he reacted in a way that i was not prepared for.

he spoke portuguese - which was fine, i wouldn't have known had he have spoke french - and french but very little english. enough to let me know that he didn't speak any english. and after several failed attempts to show me/tell me/pantomime for me he threw his hands up in the air (throw your hands up - in the air ... ha, now your singing), said something and walked away from me. i stood there with my backpack and murse and map and wondered what i had done to deserve this.

***

before university i went to australia for three weeks. i learned a lot and now plan my trips to have more direction. however i didn't realize how much i had learned until i returned home. one particular day before a shift at the pub i worked at i was at a shop developing pictures. i left the shop and a little man came up to me and asked in broken english something that resembled a bit about phone cards. without missing a beat, and knowing that anything i said would be lost in the lack of translation, i motioned for him to follow me and took him back into the store. i asked jeff at the desk (because i knew jeff at the desk because i gave jeff at the desk pints of moosehead after work) for a phone card and he pointed to next door. so i took my new friend next door and he thanked me for longer than i stood there to listen.

***

my little french/portuguese friend turned back around and looked at me and it was then that i noticed he wasn't walking away and that the Something that he said was not something said in disgust ... he was preparing to take me to the train and get me to my hostel. i looked around my corner and decided that we had had enough time together and after realizing what i had done to deserve this i prepared myself to leave the airport for the second time.

this is not france, but it is still funny.

jig'ity jig

it wasn't until i landed in France that i learned how much i didn't like change. as far as i was concerned i was able to deal with change with a fluid, adaptable patience adjusting to my environment like a chameleon. i was concerned that far, that is, up until a week ago.

mandy, only a short year ago, one year from my adventure in fact, set out for France on her own and it is becoming more apparent everyday just how difficult that must have been for her. as i left the arrival terminal in france it became very much apparent that i was not in a place that i could get around easily, however, being that adaptable person i though i was i quickly became comfortable with my environment. so comfortable, in fact, that i felt as though i could have stayed there long enough to catch my flight home six days later. perhaps i could pick up a job helping that man out over there sweeping i would say to myself.

i was happy at the airport.
i didn't want to leave.
i was perfectly content.

but the man with the broom directed me to a man at a desk who knew a little english, who directed me to man at a desk outside who knew a great deal of french. Desk Outside told me something that wasn't in english. I purchased a ticket from Desk Outside because Desk Inside told me to do so.

with my ticket in hand i got on the bus that the other two people at the stop got on to and it took me to a big place that my map told me was an Opera house. I knew this because Desk O had circled it in english; i'm not sure what i would have done had he have done this in french. At the opera house i lucked upon asking a pair of German tourists who had clearly arrived on the same bus as i and who were clearly at more of a loss than i because i don't believe they found a German Desk Inside. I knew this until they politely told me they didn't know how to help me and confidently parted ways with me in a way that left me standing staring at the large Opera house that was circled in english.

i would have liked to stay at the airport.