Aprilbaby's California Life

Lost in Paris - October 2000

Part II - inspired by the film "Paris je t'aime."

"Lost in Paris"

Our time in Paris spun by in a blur – My husband broke a chair and fell on the floor in a restaurant; we limped through the endless halls of the Louvre, where we just barely saw Mona Lisa’s left eye over the shoulders of large German tourists; an American couple asked me in broken French, somehow mistaking me for a Parisian, to take their photo – and I never revealed I was just another American tourist as I let them struggle to explain how to use their camera in French; an almost seven-foot-tall African-French man - a brilliant contrast, dressed in a fringed white-leather cowboy outfit and Stetson hat - took me by my arm and spun me around the dance floor of an Irish pub (a few doors down from the Moulin Rouge) in Montmarte… until I tore myself away, spinning and queasy.  But now we were scheduled to travel by TGV (the high speed train) into the French Alps.

The morning we were to depart from the Gare de Lyon (a train station) in Paris, the sky was black and rain poured down sideways. At just before eight that morning, I reminded the woman at our hotel’s front desk that I had requested a taxi the evening before to get us to the train station by nine a.m.

"There are no taxis available," she said without even looking up from the fashion magazine she was reading.

“But, but...we have all these heavy bags. Where’ll we go? What’ll we do?” I pleaded in my best Scarlett O’hara impersonation, except without the southern lilt and with a lot more desperation.

“Walk. Of course,” she said, flipping a glossy magazine page, not at all concerned with our problem.

My knees buckled under the weight of her words. Then, with no time to think, Ian and I looked at each other.  I pulled my fuzzy hat over my eyes.  We grabbed our luggage and dashed into the drenched streets. (Photo  below is blurry because I took it while running in the rain.)

He ran ahead.  I hobbled behind, pulling my bulging suitcases - one of which had wheels, but due to my spastic running, bounced along behind me. "Keep up!" Ian shouted, as if I wasn't trying.

That’s when my luggage unzipped and my shoes started falling out.  Parisians passing by bent over to help me pick them up. 

“Merci!  Merci!” I called out to all the kind people who stopped to hand me shoes, as I continued to run forward.

We ran and ran. The rain poured and poured. We continued quite a few blocks before deciding to get out of the rain and go underground in one of the metro stations.  We panted and darted through crowds of quiet Parisians on their way to work.

“Ian, do you even know where Gare de Lyon is?” I yelled from behind, thinking it was a good question considering he was running as if he knew.

“I... Don’t... Know!” he yelled, but continued running as if he did.

And since I had no better ideas, I followed.

Then a savior silently appeared: A French man in a trench coat with white hair and a trimmed mustache, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a copy of Le Monde under the other arm.  With a tip of his head, without saying a word, he motioned for us to follow him. We did - in and out of metro tunnels. Up stairs. Down ramps.  Through more tunnels. Each time he changed direction he looked back and gestured with another tip of his head. This went on for about five minutes until he then found a woman who could speak English.  He asked her to explain to us how to cross the bridge to get to Gare de Lyon. Then, just as silently as he appeared he disappeared. We never got a chance to properly thank him.

Eventually, we pulled our bulging suitcases up to the crest of the bridge, where we finally viewed the Gare de Lyon - which, right then, was the most beautiful sight in all of Paris.

With only minutes to spare, we boarded the train - soaking wet and out of breath – toward the medieval town of Annecy, to cause more havoc on unsuspecting French citizens and their furniture.(Photos below: beautiful Annecy in the French Alps.)

Here's a new film from my mother - who lives on a barge in Paris - and is now calling herself Cecil B. De Nancy

La Première Nuit: October 2000

*After watching the film "Paris, je t'aime", a series of short stories set in Paris, I thought I would do something similar regarding my last trip to Paris.  So I've separated some of the goofy little experiences we had in France into short stories.  I call my series "Two Idiotic Californians in France." 

Here's my first story:

                                              "La Premiere Nuit"

It’s our first night in Paris, and my husband, Ian, and I are so jet-lagged we can barely speak.  My eyes feel so heavy they hurt and my senses seem to blur.  But I try to take it all in.  The air smells of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume and diesel.  The cobblestone street shimmers under a glow of orange, green and purple neon from the signs lining the Rue de Lappe.  Music pulses from nightclubs lining the alley.  An ambulance siren bleats in the background like a strange goose. Parisians walk by swathed in scarves – twisted, rolled, tucked.  They look so stylish.  I feel dopey and scarfless.

My mother and her husband live in France.  Our daughter, Lauren, will be staying with them.  We’re all walking to dinner.  Following my mother’s lead, we duck into a restaurant.

It’s dimly lit and decorated in deep red with gold damask drapes and chairs. The seated patrons lean over flickering candle light and speak to each other in hushed voices. I look around the room, as we’re about to be seated at our table, and marvel at the sophisticated manner in which the people all around me conducted themselves. So much quieter, I think, than in most American restaurants.

Little do I know, in mere seconds, the ambiance will change completely.

Ian sits in one of the beautiful damask covered chairs.  Crack!  It breaks beneath him.  His arms fly back and seem to make a ripple in the air, like he’s back paddling.  The seconds seem to stretch and move in slow motion. I watch as my husband falls slowly toward the floor.  As if floating, his derrière and feet appear to hang in the air.

The crowd of candle-lit faces of the Parisian patrons – mouths opened wide in laughter – look like they stepped out of a Toulouse Lautrec painting, as if they’re in the audience of the Moulin Rouge, gasping at the height at which the can-can girls can kick. But, no! They’re gasping at the sight before them: The man in the air. Their under-lit faces smear together as if Toulouse’s oils were still wet. Finally, Ian lands with a thud on the pretty Persian rug.  And there he seems to stay for an eternity.

Every sophisticated Parisian in the restaurant turns in his direction. They point. They laugh - hardy, knee slapping laughs - as if Ian’s their personal Jerry Lewis.

I think about all my French etiquette books I read before arriving in Paris.  They all warned about seeming too “American” – no sweat pants or running shoes; no barking orders in English, and, definitely no smiling idiotically at everything - all in the name of fitting in.  Basically, don’t be an American! 

Yet, here we are in Paris and these French people seem to love my Husband (Okay, so he’s Canadian).   But they don’t know that.  So I think, “The French do love Americans.  Yes, they do… to laugh at!”

As a polite Canadian with an American spirit, Ian just brushes himself off, laughs and sits in a new chair.  Our waiter treats us to a bottle of desperately needed wine. 

My mom lifts her glass, “À votre santé!”

“To our health? Yes,” I think, “with three weeks left in France, we’re going to need it."

Here's a movie my mother made of a recent cruise down the Seine.