After fifteen uncannily smooth hours in the air, many of which I passed reading Geoff Dyer’s “The Paris Trance” (how fitting) while picking my way through the 112 songs on HBO’s Girls’ soundtrack, I landed in Paris feeling the way that everyone feels after lengthy air travel: a distinct sense of accomplishment, as if it’d been by my own physical exertion that our Boeing 777 powered across the Atlantic.

It occurred to me at the airport, as I stood waiting for my raspberry-colored backpack to emerge from the bowels of the baggage carousel, that I had no idea how to tell our cab driver where to take us.  I could, perhaps, produce a shameful pronunciation of the street name, but the number?  I’d have no clue.  This, despite that I did take one semester of French in college – an experience from which I’ve retained only the recollection that my professor was an especially attractive man.

I can also tell people what my name is – a thing I doubt anyone here is very interested in knowing.

I’ve had only one foray into the non-english speaking world, this to Argentina.  There my very tentative spanish was graciously supplemented by David’s intrepid willingness to speak the language boldly, properly conjugated verbs be damned.  And so, when I bumped into a small woman at the Paris airport, I instinctively apologized to her in Spanish.  Clearly my brain had quickly processed that nobody in my vicinity would understand my english, but that was as far as it got.  David’s brain must have done the same, I decided, as I watched him greet the man at customs with a jovial ‘Hola.’

But, a full 48 hours into my time here in Paris, I’m still standing.  I’ve been well-fed and have not gotten lost.  Though, I’ll admit, the woman who took my boarding pass in Montreal was astute in her admonishment of my use of “thank you,” saying to me: “You’d best practice, they won’t be nice to you in Paris.”  We’ve had some terse service, to be sure.  But I’ve quickly learned the basics (read: how to apologize).  This seems to help.  The last thing I wish to be perceived as is ‘a stupid American woman,’ but I suppose that is inevitable over the course of this journey.  I may as well move past that, and Paris seems as good a place to do so as any.

Embracing my Inner Tourist

If San Francisco is summed up with the word ‘magical’ or ‘gorgeous’ (two words I tend to use), well then Paris is ‘charming.’  The buildings are charming and the cobble stoned streets are charming.  The espresso in the little cups are charming, as are the crispy cookies that accompany.  The street signs are charming and even the especially efficient metro system is charming.  The French-women’s shoes are charming and the  well-behaved children they shepherd are charming.  Everything is jumping-off-of-a-postcard charming, and I want to photograph it all.

If only I didn’t look like such a tourist doing so.

Yesterday, as we stood across the street from a Metro station, wondering if the train that ran directly beneath our feet would get us to where we wanted to be, David pulled out the map and began studying it.  I glanced around self-consciously, aware of how ‘touristy’ we looked.  He noticed my discomfort and wryly suggested that I get over myself.  It was a good idea.

To commemorate the occasion, I boldly photographed the sign.

For the foreseeable future, I am a tourist.  I am a camera-toating, comfortable sandal-wearing, language-barrier-silenced tourist.  And I’m very lucky to be one, so why feel ashamed?  Perhaps more accurately, I simply feel uncomfortable.  I now (already!) see how for granted I’d taken the ease with which life happens when in my hometown.  I’ll admit, I was guilty of rolling my eyes as tourists mucked up my morning commute – unaware as they were that for the bus doors to open, one first must ‘step down.’  And I’ve also honked at them – just a friendly tap – when they stood in the middle of the street to snap a photo of Lombard.  I now regret doing so.  Tourists can be very nice people.

If this was all to be only a two-week vacation, I wouldn’t be giving this a second thought.  But it’s now my ‘way of life’ – for the forseeable future, and I suppose you could say these past few days have seen me slowly come to terms with that reality – both the good and the bad of it.

Disconnected

When my plane touched down in Toronto, and again in Montreal, and finally in Paris, my body did this funny thing.  Instinctively – like reaching to scratch an itch – I went for my mobile phone.  And then I remembered that I could not turn it on.  At least not without downloading several megabytes of data and acquiring the international fees.

Being disconnected has been another ‘reality’ I’m growing accustomed to.  In some ways it is great: I’m seeing just how much happens in the world when my head would ordinarily be bent toward that glowing screen.  Yesterday, sitting outside of Notre Dame waiting for David, a moment when I would normally be scanning Facebook or Twitter, I instead found myself scrutinizing the hundreds of shoes that walked past me.  Leather shoes and canvas shoes and tennis shoes and sandals.  I began to play a little game with myself: guessing which country the wearer of the shoes was from, straining to hear them speak in an effort to confirm my suspicions.  I wasn’t very often correct.

But I also saw this:

It was unclear whether she knew this bird was on her head (I have to assume she did) but to imagine that I might have been sitting right beside this – oblivious because I was staring at my phone?

It does pain me at times – simple things, like not being able to pull up directions on a map, or google something in order to swiftly settle a silly debate I might be having with David.  But I hope it will begin to feel more natural.  That paper maps will become my friend, and that I can soon learn that sometimes it’s okay if we ‘agree to disagree’ – at least until an internet connection is available.