It's four o'clock in the morning here in Paris and, still working through the joys of jetlag, I've been up for about two hours. I'll go back for a nap here in a bit, and hopefully end up actually getting up at some hour more reasonable by local standards. In the meantime, I thought I would throw some thoughts out into the ether.
Nick and I arrived in Paris around 1100 hours, without any events more interesting than our delayed flight. Through the miracles of melatonin, I actually caught about four hours of sleep as we cruised across the Atlantic and wasn't too much of a zombie as we caught a taxi and arrived at our rented flat. The landlord's rep was an accommodating middle-aged gentleman who stumbled through English as he walked us through the quirks and tricks of our new digs, which are quite comfortable, though stylistically reminiscent of something I would call, "Picasso's acid trip meets crocheted pot holders." Pictures will be forthcoming, but if you can't wait, check it out here.
We muddled our way through the rest of the day, poking around, unpacking, napping and finally collapsing at four o'clock, only to wake up in twelve hours. Saturday, we got up very early, made breakfast and a list of things to do before setting out to see what we could find. Our mission included power adapters (adaptateurs), groceries and monthly metro passes. It turns out that the street we live on runs straight down to the Seine, near the Louvre (about 20 minutes walk, if that) and is a bustling market street, replete with cheese shops, butchers, fruit stands, restaurants, cafes, boutiques, shoe stores, natural markets and everything else you could want. I have no doubts, that I could spend my entire trip within ten blocks and not get bored, if I chose to. We got to walk around and watch all the shops open, the markets put out their fruit and the street cleaners at their work, because really, very few people should be up at seven o'clock on a Saturday.
We killed time, waiting for shops to open by eating le petit dejeuner (breakfast) at one of the earlier opening cafes. A hot drink of your choice, orange juice and bread or croissant for 7€. It was delicious. While my life revolves primarily around food and drink, I will spare you the details this once and come back to the fabulous nuances of that simple meal in the future, as it was a more eventful day.
In spite of fighting some airline acquired bug (sore throat, fever and nausea), we found our way to a metro station and purchased our passes, got some staples for the kitchen and goodies to make a lovely dinner and then came home for a nap. While our spirits have been willing to overcome jetlag, the flesh is weak and fighting the creeping crud doesn't help. About three hours later, we struggled out of our comas and set out to find a place to buy electrical adapters.
We had our sights set on the seeming French equivalent of Best Buy (though we hoped the prices were not all as outrageous as those indicated online), but on our way, we passed a small hard/houseware shop that we decided looked promising, and probably cheaper. We wandered in and while we didn't see anything immediately, it became clear that we should probably whip out some of our killer French skills and ask. Luckily, being foggy from a cold, exhausted from jet lag and very dizzy (as a result of time-change induced rescheduling of taking some medications) helped to minimize my inhibitions, so I boldly walked up to a gentleman, with a strong, "Bonjour," and what ensued was something of a tag team effort between Nick and me, all in French which communicated our needs, with a surprising lack of confused looks from the store employee. We got what we wanted, paid, and walked out the door feeling quite accomplished, all missions successful for the day.
(I'm going to keep writing and hopefully assure you that not all posts will turn into the Slightly Mediocre American Novel.)
My last trip to Paris (six odd years ago) left me feeling very self conscious of not knowing French and with the general impression that the linguistic snobbery that Americans believe to be true of Parisians was no myth. So far this trip, I have been overwhelmingly impressed with the Parisian's willingness to help a person fumbling for French and what I have seen and experienced of the culture, I love. I'll elaborate on this more later, but right now, I am very happy to be where I am and am already dreading the day I have to go home.
Finally, regarding the title of the post. Again, four o'clock in the morning, Nick and I are both up fighting jetlag and the Parisians outside are making a, presumably, normal amount of racket at the restaurants and bars out on the main street. They are quiet most of the day, but party hard toward the wee hours of the morning. Closed windows keep the noise out quite well, but it's been warm, so we've opened them. After chuckling together about the raucous sounds of laughter that sound like nothing so much as a hysterical monkey, a huge clattering, along with whooping, shouts, whistling and singing begins. Upon investigation out the window, we discover that there is an entire cavalry parade, complete with sparkling covers, polished sabers and flowing cloaks, going down le Boulevaard de Bonne Novelle. At four in the morning. It lasted for about 15-20 minutes, and all we can guess is that it has something to do with upcoming Bastille Day festivities.
Anyway, now, after all of that nattering on, I will post this and leave you to read it (perhaps in installments?) at your leisure.
Au revoir y hasta luego!
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