Parisian Perfection

Hey,

So the plane gets into Paris around 8pm, and because I landed in a smaller airport, we had to take a bus into the city. I was grateful that we did, because it allowed us the opportunity to see the French countryside. Unlike in Rome, where I felt history, in Paris I just felt. No matter that the city itself is gritty, unforgiving and much dirtier than I'd imagined, there is LOVE everywhere. I arrived at night, and spotted at least 8 couples making out as I forayed my way to the hostel. I would see couples kissing all throughout my journey in Paris. I will tell you this, there is something in the air in Paris. I don't really know what it is...whether it's a smell, a sensation or a feeling, but it's like aromatic euphoria. Every time I would get angry, stressed or sad, I'd breathe that air in, and it seemed to say, "Chill, you're in Paris." That's pretty much how I felt. Like I was in a dream, and couldn't wake up. But, after my first night, I really didn't want to.

Ironically, though I considered Paris to be dirtier, the hostel itself was MUCH more modernized than the one I left in Rome. It had internet, a bar, a sauna and decent showers. I was more than excited to see the showers that didn't soak your feet because the drain was too slow. I have to admit, I also had another reason to get excited about Paris, and that reason was waiting for me at my hostel. I was very glad to see the reason, my buddy Terry, live and in the flesh, and after being solo for a while and fighting off some loneliness, it was nice to have some company. Together, we saw the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the River Seine. I actually enjoyed just being lost in Paris, randomly walking down streets just to see where they led. Surprisingly enough, none of the alleged Parisian crime affected us.

After he left on the third day, which did make me sad, I decided to take advantage of some of the other sights of Paris that we didn't see together. So, I found a free walking tour of the neighborhood Montematre, where all the artisans reside, and the home of the famed Moulin Rouge theatre. I caught the Paris metro to the train stop, got out and walked around for a bit. While doing so, I stumbled upon the first and only Starbucks since London. I went inside, and it felt less like Starbucks and more like a Parisian cafe, which appealed to my tourist side, but the slightly homesick for America side was expecting to see the Americanized version of which I've become accustomed. Imagine my disappointment, as I was searching for something, anything, American to forge a temporary connection.

After I took a deep breath and got a dose of "Chill, you're in PARIS!", I quickly recovered, found my tour and discovered my favorite parts of Paris, Montmatre. Full of hills, monuments to artists, little squares of people singing and dancing to well performed music, it was the infusion of spirit that I needed. Walking around some parts of Montmatre is like accidentally stumbling into a quaint village, while other parts seem to exist as its own city, independent of Paris. There are plenty of affordable and not so affordable shops to get food, clothes and mementos. It is hilly, so good shoes are definitely required, but the views of Paris and the cityscape from some particular streets is absolutely breathtaking. I started to get sick for my mom, not because I missed America, but because I wanted her to see the things I saw...and I knew that she'd be one of the only people I know who would see them the same way I would. Plus, watching her climb up these hills would have been a hoot. Although I would have gotten smacked for making fun of her arthritis.

I completed a staring contest with the local scam artists, who gather in the square below the Sacre-Coeur. The scam is simple, and it scares many tourists, enough so that they give you a lecture about it on the walking tour. It works like this: they come up to you (and usually they are African men), pretending to know little to no English, and they tell you that they want to give you a friendship bracelet. (In some cases, they don't tell you.) Before you can reply with an "ok", they slip this string looking thing around whatever arm you have available. Then, as you try to walk away, you realize they are holding the end of it. The scam comes in when they tell you that they want a certain amount of euros to release you. Depending on how scared you are, how little you are, or how big they are, it can range from as little as 5 euros to as much as 50 euros. I spotted this con being pulled on many of the unassuming tourists, and after accidentally bumping into some of the guys pulling it, I realized the con was that their english was pretty perfect. However, the face I was making must have been incredibly scary, because I found that they never even thought of messing with me.

Later, I was convinced to go on yet another pub crawl, but unlike the one in Rome, this one sucked. The places they were stopping seemed to be very....low rent, and the drinks were weak. So, I made an executive decision to ditch the crawlers, and go walking around downtown Paris. Yeah, that might not have been the smartest decision, but I did it. And, I managed to stumble into a not so great neighborhood. I saw some guys who were pointing at me, and began to walk behind me. I kept the eyes that grew on the back of my head on them, and decided to cut back across the rue (street) to return to an busier one..and through an alleyway. Moving quickly, and losing sight of the guys following me, I felt relief. I stepped onto the corner, and in doing so, I found a tiny slice of Parisian heaven.

Understand that I know some French. I'm nowhere near fluent, like I wish to someday become, but I surprised myself with being able to go to the store, read signs to do my laundry, pay for Metrocards, order bread, find clothes and manage with basic conversation. I amazed myself at how much I really knew. With that in mind, my Parisian heaven, was a place where English...was out the window.

It was a tiny lounge in the basement of a coffee shop that sold genuine African food. Greeted by a beautiful cocoa-skinned woman in all African garb, she beckoned me inside. I walked in, not because of her, but because of the smells. There are no words in any language, English or French, to accurately describe the loveliness, divinity, mouth-watering, passionate, salivating awesomeness of that smell. A combination of rice, spice, seafood, chicken and fruit...it was heaven. The beautiful woman told me to call her Maman, which is part of the word "bonne maman" which means grandmother, even though she looked like she could be my sister. Without much of a discussion, she asked me if I was hungry, and I nodded. She asked if I liked lamb and I said no, and then she disappeared. Music was thumping, people behind me were dancing and gyrating, really just having a great time. I watched Maman, hard at work at a small stove off to the left and in front of me. I couldn't see what she was doing, but I sat patiently.

After being hit on by two guys, one of which I kept turning away from because of his rank breath, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face a smiling Maman, who held a bowl in her hands. She extended it out to me. I peered inside, not knowing what to expect, but found the most beautiful looking pile of rice and peas that I'd ever seen. "Pour la vegeterianne" she says, smiling. (For the vegetarian, which she assumed I was). I dove into it....and it was FANTASTIC. A simple meal cooked well. Sauteed tomatoes, yellow rice, onion, garlic, and big beautiful peas. Sigh. I would find this place and go there twice before I left Paris, and the people tried to get me to teach them English in exchange for food. I explored, but never found nicer and warmer people than in that little lounge. Paris, I'll be back.

Roman Sentiments

Hey,

After I said a goodbye to London, rode a train and arrived at Stansted Airport in the suburban London countryside, I would get on the flight from hell and head to Rome. Not only did I arrive at the airport entirely TOO early because of my own poor planning, but I was tired from being out the night before TOO late. I got up too late, and rushed, breaking my neck and not realizing that I could have taken my sweet time and arrived just like I wanted. However, getting there so early allowed me to experience what the airport SHOULD be.

In a word, Stansted cannot be described. It's clean, sunny, bright and people are really happy to be at work. Well, except those who work for RyanAir. (I'll get to that later). The airport is totally state of the art, with internet stations, showers in the restrooms, duty free shops like Chanel, M.A.C., Sephora, and a full fleged deli with caviar...sigh. Duty-free shops are simply places in the airports overseas where you can buy things and not pay taxes on them. Unlike America, where you pay MORE for goods at the airport, in Europe, it is LESS. Hindsight, I would have bought more from there. This is what it looked like.

Well, the flight from Stansted to Ciampiano Aiport was interesting. I'd never seen anything like it. The flight on RyanAir was more like the Wild Wild West. Passengers were drunk, flight attendants rolled the cart down the aisle selling food, then trinkets, then liquor, then jewelry. Random babies then began to walk up and down the aisles, and then they started to cry. There was a smell of body odor that ran rampant, and the Italian lothario on the flight proceeded to make his way down the aisles flirting with woman after woman, and by the time he got to me, he reeked of rum. People were not wearing their seat belts when told, the flight attendants were screaming at people...it was pure insanity. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I instead shrugged my shoulders and did a lot of head shaking.

Finally, I was off the flight and in Italy. Signs were in Italian, people spoke Italian. I landed at night, in an empty airport, and I got in my hostel late. I managed to drag my hefty bag there, and fell asleep. The next morning, hungry and out of money, I searched for a bank. In doing so, I would get my first taste of true Roman hospitality.

"Get out!" were the first words I heard upon surrendering my purse to a locker, and walking through a kind of revolving doorway that locked as you stepped in, which was unlocked by bank staff. I was confused. I'd said nothing and done nothing, and after walking in triple degree heat, I did not understand why I was being treated in such a way. I asked if they knew how I could get money from my account, and after rudely being told that my business was not wanted or desired, I was escorted (and I use that word nicely) out of the bank and into the street. I started to walk away, until I realized I'd placed my purse in a locker. I went back and after some fussing at the guard, I was able to retrieve it, safe and sound. It would take me almost two hours to find another branch, one in which my money and my business was appreciated. It happened to be in a tourist-y area, where I should have remained.

As I did in London, after getting enough money to last me for a moment, I began to explore my surroundings. However, while I was amazed by the history, and noticing the buildings and underlying beauty of Rome, I began to notice something else. People...were staring. At me. And I didn't know why. I walked along the Tiber River, down to the Campo de Fiori and watched the city light up at night. I walked past Termini station and down into Chinatown, where I scored two of the most comfortable pairs of sandals I've been fortunate to wear. However, I felt like people were staring. When I got back to the hostel, I asked why the people of Rome might find me so interesting and got no reply from the Australians who worked the desk. I showered, went out to eat my first Italian meal and shrugged it off.

My first Italian meal was pasta, of course. I washed it down with a Coke, and it's pictured to the left. It's known as a local seafood special, and consists of mussels, langoustines (shrimp), scallops and clams tossed with olive oil with garlic and a hint of basil on a bed of linguini pasta . The plate doesn't look too big, but it was deep and cheap and orgasmic. I found myself eating here everyday, where they knew me as an American, and because I tipped well, they took care of me. I was so hungry on my first visit, that I ate this bowl and took another as a take-away (to-go)! Hey, why not, I was on vacation! Who cared if my waist expanded? After a night of walking around, I settled in my room and went fast to sleep. The next day, I did not wake up until around 430pm. I didn't realize I'd slept so long until I looked up and realized housekeeping had managed to clean all around me. Invigorated, I decided to try my hand at a night of Roman partying in something called a pub crawl.

To Be Continued in:

Roman Sentiments, Part 2