Train travel, if all goes fortunately as planned, is magically simple – even elegant – in Europe. I think
the secret to ensuring this ease is simply adjusting to the fact that the
French have, not surprisingly, a different way of transacting business. Like
most Americans, I’ve become so accustomed to arranging all my affairs online
and well in-advance, conveniently printing out confirmations of travel
reservations and electronically entering codes at my points of departure
without issue. Technology in certain domains is viewed differently in France,
and the nature of purchasing tickets varies from public transportation to
airports. The rail system exemplifies how much more direct business
transactions tend to be here – that is to say, between client and seller. (Need
help? You usually have to ask. Want
to personalize a reservation? Tell the person serving you exactly what you want.) Once I understood this mentality, getting
from A to B became so much easier.
Instead of trying to buy a train ticket on the Rail Europe website for
my Bastille Day weekend in Paris (constant internet connection problems), I decided to
employ my last-resort purchasing
strategy at Gare de Lyon three weeks prior: I went to the guichet (ticket counter) an hour before my desired departure, asked
what was available, and reserved a seat on the next available train. My agent
was completely helpful, offered me far more options than were available online,
and I was on my way to Paris – stress free – on a direct TGV within the hour. (Just long enough to shed the stifling
afternoon heat with a cocktail in the lounge.) I’ve noticed that the French
don’t like to deal with machines as much as they do human beings. In three
hours, I arrived refreshed and comfortable at Gare de Lyon, the site of that
heinously chaotic morning three weeks before. Savvy or not, I had a newfound
confidence after a month in this country that didn’t exist the day I departed
for Grenoble. Stepping out into rain by the taxi queue, the feeling of
familiarity was almost overwhelming. I was back in Paris, my true home in France.
What’s more, the City of Light showed more layers this time, more
detail. At the end of my two-week vacation in June, I had come to see Paris as
more-or-less another large European city – certainly the greatest in France and
one of the foremost in the world – yet aside from a few clichés and typically
urban glamour, its people, its style didn’t strike me as terribly unique. Three weeks outside the périphérique changed that.
Sliding into a silver Mercedes (Miranda Priestly, anyone?), I alerted
the media – also known as William – via text that I was en route from the
station. I helped the driver locate William’s tiny street in a zone piéton (pedestrian-only zone), and
exhaling, fell back into my cushy seat, my heart and stomach aflutter with
excitement about being back and the marvelous couple of days and nights ahead
in the Paris I could finally say I knew. I recognized the inimitable limestone buildings
that passed, the street names on their iconic blue-and-white plaques, the broad
awnings of cafés where – weeks before – I’d watched the world go by over glasses
of kir. At last, I thought, I have a place, something of a life here. I have a
foot in two cultures.
After sheepishly clarifying which “second floor” William’s apartment was
on – I’d forgotten if it was the European or American – I ascended the narrow
staircase to his door as a light flipped on, William on the landing with a
slightly fatigued smile.
“It’s rainingggggg,” he
moaned, alluding to the unseasonably depressing weather that had been plaguing
Paris all summer.
We exchanged les bises,
dropped my bags on the floor, and hit the alimentaire
next door to prep for the evening’s cocktail party. An old friend was visiting
from Brussels, and wine was naturally in order.
 |
| Crossing the Pont du Carrousel |
Pushing aside the Dior sunglasses and party invitations to Maxim’s, we
arranged a spread of simple but typically French hors d’oeuvres – cornichons (tiny pickled gherkins), cheese,
toast and pâté – and passed the hour chatting and catching up, sipping vin blanc from the Loire.
“You know,” William announced in his velvety accent (accorded much
attention in my third post), “I love
pâté. But it’s SO gross. I mean, whenever I eat it I think, ‘This looks and
smells like cat food.’ Yet it’s always so good…” I spread the minced goodness
on a square of toast.
Obviously, as a student of French, one of the enormous advantages to
having a Francophone friend is the occasion to verify what is taught in class –
or heard out and about – with real-world parlance. I pulled out my conversation
journal, required for my class on colloquial French in Grenoble, and William
and I laughingly read through all the phrases and idioms I had learned or heard
from Laurence and on the town. Most of what I’d encountered in daily
conversation is still in current use, but some expressions are dreadfully
old-fashioned.
“’Je me damnerais pour ça? (I’d damn myself/kill for that.)’ Oh God,
no. Only grandmothers say this.” I conjured images of swooning
matrons in Chanel skirt-suits, hands to their foreheads at a tea service. Still,
convinced that my soul is at least half that of an elderly socialite, this is
just theatrical enough for me to adopt.
The doorbell rang, and in walked Sam, a Cameroonian-born Parisian who’s
now a buyer for a posh boutique in Brussels. I noticed that the boys, long-time
copains, were both suddenly donning
black – the fashion industry uniform – thus my cue to follow suit. I nixed my pink
button-down for a sheer, jet-black deep-V and shawl-neck cardigan.
Cole Haans and
one umbrella later, I was scurrying downstairs with my Frenchmen to a cab in
the glistening cobblestone street.
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