Les mêmes vêtements.

Little in life – VERY little – happens as you expect it. Have a seat and grab a drink…this will require some time to read.

Sitting by my bedroom window above one of the most tranquil courtyards in Paris – or so it was described by my landlady, Marion – I’m still taking in the fact that I’m thousands of miles from home, in a place so storied, famous and great that it’s hard to believe it actually exists as a real city where people live day-to-day. Despite two brief trips to France in the past, it was still mind-boggling to hear only fluid French as I stepped out of my taxi onto Rue Chaptal in the 9^th arrondissement. (This is the language here.) I’ve been here 72 hours, in one quartier, and yet I’ve born witness to so much of life’s great pageant that to try and communicate it properly would take hours of writing. I’ll just begin with tales of my journey here. 

It alone is a long story.

Getting here was not easy. I now realize how incredibly fortunate I’ve been in the past while traveling, avoiding any real horror stories aside from waiting with a stand-by ticket for 12 hours in an American airport years ago. Long-delayed flights and lost baggage are common tales, I know, but both happened to me for the first time between the U.S. and France last weekend. Chicago O’Hare was madness – no surprise there – and it took me an hour and a half to get through check-in and security. The city was wretchedly hot on Friday, and my suitcase followed with all the lightness of a boat anchor, despite my leviathan efforts to pack minimally. I was very much looking forward to spending my final hour on American soil sitting in air conditioning and refreshing myself with a tuna sandwich and crisp Pellegrino. My flight was on time and I was giddy to depart for Europe. My calm is laughable in hindsight…

My United flight to Toronto was suddenly delayed for an “incoming aircraft”. Not the usual half hour, of course. My 4.07pm departure was pushed to 5.25. Then boosted to 5.16 and 5.15. Then back to 5.20. It was finally decided that I should fly out at 5.30. My arrival time had thus been officially moved to the precise boarding time of my Air Canada connection in Toronto. The O’Hare rep assured me that my baggage would make it to the next plane, and that all Air Canada representatives knew who I was and that I’d be late…along with numerous other passengers destined for Charles de Gaulle. This guy also told me I could skip any Canadian border inspection since I was just connecting for mere minutes and I had to catch a flight. I’ve come to the conclusion that the word of these people is worth about as much as one finds in the morning toilet.

The Canadian immigration agent glared at me as he asked for my passport and declaration card, hamming up the intimidation (obviously I took the time to pack my .35 in my carry-on…American airport security just misses these things, you know?). In my opinion, this is just Canada compensating for decades of border-patrol laxity, and since I was obviously powerless anyway, I played along and was soon running to the boarding gate.

Thank God the jet was nice. International flights are, as all of you must know, the last bastion of hospitable airline service. Remember when you could get a complimentary dinner – and drinks – in Economy to San Francisco or Florida circa 1996? Well, now you need to fly abroad for that. But the service really was wonderful on Air Canada. Two little bottles of French Syrah was all I needed, people, and I finally…FINALLY…calmed down and napped. I was amazed at how soon it was morning as we descended over the patchwork of green fields around CdG.

“GOD, this is taking a long time,” I mumbled, watching the dregs of my plane’s luggage roll out at Baggage Claim. The thought had crossed my mind that it’s always possible for airlines to lose luggage on international flights, but because it had never occurred in my relatively dense flight history, I always brushed it off as mere possibility…not a regular occurrence. With looming dread, I tried ignoring my naïveté: It was clear my only checked suitcase was not on the carousel. Like a lost puppy, I followed a few outraged and bag-less Americans to Service Bagages. Hoping that my usual charm would be a pleasing contrast to the angry sweatsuits before me, I mustered my most polite if simple French and started to feel pretty good about my reception from a French customer service rep.

“Votre ticket, s’il vous plait,” she chimed while typing my various codes and name. The penciled brows arched. The bedroom eyes flew open. She emitted an “oh la la” before reaching for the phone.

“But how bad coud this be?” I thought. Pretty bad.

“C’est encore à Toronto…” she responded, with a shrug and pouted lips, “It’s still in Toronto.” SHIT.

Surprisingly, I didn’t cry, grimace, or even glare. She immediately told me that it would arrive, by personal delivery to my Pigalle apartment, the next day. Always sweet and eager to please, I figured that would be a cinch, and I’d be donning all my favorite outfits at Café de la Paix the next afternoon.

It is my third day in France. I am still wearing the same clothes, and have bathed with nothing but water and handsoap. And yet, though I’m still in survival mode (and sans bagages), I still find myself falling back in love with the place. Next time, when I’m well-dressed and content, I’ll tell you why.

Here are the past 4 days in third-person:

Samedi (Saturday)

Eamonn pleasantly leaves Baggage Services and nabs cab at Charles de Gaulles. 

E has lovely chat with Senegalese driver Milo until he remembers he stupidly forgot other expensive bag full of thousands of dollars in cash and electronics at Baggage Services.

E returns to CdG lobby to find that he is forbidden re-entry to baggage area, and desperately begs man with employee badge to help him re-enter. No dice. Adorable Greek girl also missing baggage helps him re-enter with special pass. Staff members amusedly hand back vacation-in-a-bag.

E steps onto streets of Pigalle for first time in 8 years. Holy-Fucking-Shit Moment 1: “I’m in FRANCE!!!” HFSM 2: “OH GOOD GOD. I’m completely alone in a foreign country and there’s no going back."

E timidly starts speaking French, because every social interaction from arrival on is a source of anxiety. E realizes his IQ will appear to drop many points from a French perspective. E tries to cope with humiliation by not smiling at anyone on street.

E meets landlady, Marion Binoche Stalens – Juliette Binoche’s sister. E decides not to discuss this fabulous connection, since Marion is wonderfully sweet but understandably busy as a photographer/cinematographer/actress. Marion prepares E’s apartment gloriously. And duh, Marion also looks SO much like her sister.

E finds quintessentially Parisian apartment with rooftop views even more adorable than the photos. E is in a daze and wishes he had the rest of his clothes to make the moment perfect.

E realizes he can’t even get a cell connection while roaming internationally, and finds that wireless in apartment doesn’t work. E is sad because he can’t communicate with anyone at home until he finds shop selling phone cards. Internet cafés are hard to come by and E accepts that there is no even remotely reliable, free Wi-Fi in Paris. E wants to die because there is so much Facebooking and blogging to do.

E walks feet raw on miles of winding streets and takes in all he remembers of his previous visit to Paris…and how the clichés really do apply here.

E naps.

E is terribly happy his travel outfit was carefully selected, because it’s all he has to wear and is getting a good reception: People never address him in English unless he speaks it first. Score. E also realizes that single outfit, appearing for hours and hours on the same streets, makes him highly conspicuous in Pigalle and Montmartre.

E buys international calling card and calls friends at home to let them know he’s not dead. E uses payphone on noisy rue de Lafayette.

E loves how sun shines until 10.30pm (22h30) in France.

E bathes in hot water and handsoap, and slumbers beautifully.

Dimanche (Sunday)

E wakes up to a rainy day (far earlier than EVER in Ann Arbor) and seeks out Orange (major French TV/Internet/phone carrier) store or tabac (typical liquor/lotto shop) to buy cellphone minutes for little French phone, generously lent by biffle Francophone Dana Sasinowski. Remembers that all such establishments close on Sunday. (Fuck.)

E ventures to payphone to call Service Bagages de Charles de Gaulles to check luggage return status. Incoherent and typically indifferent Frenchman tells him it’s already at CdG and will be delivered same-day as specified. E tries to tell him (in English – ugh) that his American phone number doesn’t work in France and that he needs to give other instructions to deliveryman. Frenchman hangs up. 

E spends morning taking métro rides around his neighborhood, buying baguettes and red wine at market, and sampling French TV in his apartment. E also buys groceries at Carrefour (which E decides is the French/Parisian equivalent of Kroger). 

E waits at apartment for luggage to arrive. Falls asleep for 2 hours, and takes quick walks, but no delivery seems to happen…for 10 hours.

E wants to cry, but instead makes hilarious little pasta supper with sliced gouda and arugula and listens to Edith Piaf.

E takes another pathetic water-and-handsoap bath in a cute tub pretending to double as shower. 

E sleeps another great sleep.

Lundi (Monday)

E wakes up to more rain.

E walks to Orange store on Boulevard Haussmann to buy new SIM card for French phone and lots of minutes/texts for official communication in France.

E is only foreign customer at Orange who arranges his affairs entirely in French. E receives first French cell number. E is totally thrilled.

E returns to apartment and calls CdG again to see if bag was even driven to address previous day. Agent says yes, his computer says it was. E thinks that deliveryman couldn’t get through gate to apartment building and left suitcase on street to let it be stolen, or perhaps – as agent thinks – it was given to the building concierge. But E currently doesn’t know if concierge is even home.

E awaits call back from Marion to see if the above situation is even possible.

E gets tipsy on Beaujolais in apartment listening to Délibes and ventures to internet café to publish blog post.

E realizes how unbelievable it is to be in Paris, on his own, living in 3 of his own French rooms.

Mardi (Tuesday)

E awakes to...more rain!! There are also adorable screaming voices coming from the little school two doors down.

E reaches darling Marion, who calls indifferent CdG services agents and deals with them as only the French can. E wants to kiss Marion over the phone.

E waits for word on luggage at "Aussie" coffee shop a stone's throw away from apartment, le Kooka Boora, which is really just a fabulously American hipster-style place that would make Ann Arbor proud. FULL of Americans studying abroad or living here. The latter make E highly envious.