Breaching Paris

The guard at the ATL security checkpoint tells me I forgot to sign my passport. Off to a great start. 30ish French woman with a Costello hat circuitously paces around the terminal, approaching several times as if about to offer conversation, then coyly scampers off. Only old Frenchmen seem to travel ATL to Paris, and they are all dignified. Eight hours in a plane isn't as long as it sounds; all French stewardesses are underwear models on their days off; these statements are somehow connected.

Walk a mile through beauty shops in Charles-de-Gualle. AirFrance won't let me fly round trip to Paris, so it's Paris-London-Paris both ways with an annoying little chunnel ride each time. London looks exactly like Lock-Stock, and every dwelling has two brick chimneys. I jerk my way around transit, Paddington to King's Cross, stop at a sushi bar with conveyor belts. The fried tofu starts to kick in as I board the Eurostar, zzz...

I come to with the Asian man next to me waiting to exit the train to tell me I dropped my ipod. I'm the last off the train and feel delirious. Paris, Gare-Nord, metropolitan hub. Rush hour. The Tourist information line is overwhelming. A million Parisians skitter around and in front of me. Stupid travelers take forever to buy metro passes. I am a stupid traveler and buy an all-encompassing overpriced tourist pass including museum discounts, and don't realize this until my last day there.

I have no idea how long I have been awake for now. I stumble and shake as I try to keep up with the locals. That first metro ride is a complete blur. Somehow I manage to make it to street level at the stop directed by my couchsurfing host. I change directions several times, consulting city maps until I find her place. The door has a keypad. I try lots of buttons and the pay phone across the street to no avail. Eventually one of her neighbors lets me in.

Melodie, my host, greets me warmly into her tiny apartment. She has lived in Norway, Mexico, New Mexico, Bulgaria, and has the push pins in her wall to wall maps to prove it. We play guitar and banter. I let it slip that I play poker for a living, which instantly provokes her concern for my moral wellbeing and financial stability. Godammit. I don't know why that information always induces strange reactions from the girls of my generation.

I'm exhausted but she convinces me to go out and meet some other random couchsurfers in the middle of downtown Paris; feeding me French white beer is a substantial part of her plan and works well. We arrive at a happening little square around a 16th? century fountain. The night proves uneventful, as the people we meet are essentially squares, from what I can tell through the language barrier. The Norweigan was particularly disappointing, not being a dragon-slaying black metal guitar god, but a novice tango-dancing Prufrock.

I sleep restlessly on a bare mattress until woken up early by Melodie, who must depart for work. She explains she cannot host me the second night, like we agreed, because I toss and turn in my sleep, which will hinder her from getting rest, and she must leave for Berlin in a day blah blah blah. Excuses quickly fill the confined quarters of her apartment. I react cordially, and thank her for her hospitality. So continues the saga of women ejecting me from their apartments/vehicles/company at odd hours and angles; it is hard not to take a little measure of pride in such a thing. But more on that anon.

I leave in good spirits. It's fucking Paris outside! All day! I begin my time here the only way I know how, with a morning stroll down the Champs-Élysées...