Welcome in, the champagne is waiting.
Lundi
As I get closer to my trip, I start to feel the anxiety creeping in.
What if this once-in-a-lifetime trip doesn’t feel once in a lifetime? What if, after a year of studying French, I won’t even be able to order a glass of wine? What if I catch James’s cold and spend the entire week miserable?
While I know life is unpredictable, I decide that, to help myself over the hurdle, I’ll create a persona for myself to take to Paris.
Someone cool. Someone who makes her way in the world with poise and confidence and has a little... je ne sais quoi.
Her name is Penelope Jones.
She is a cultured yet down-to-earth antique dealer who visits Parisian brocantes regularly, scouting out little gems to sell back in her shop in England. Penelope loves wandering the cobblestone streets of the 6th arrondissement, and most afternoons you can find her en terrasse at a local bistro, sipping a glass of champagne.
I would describe Ms. Jones as a mix between a Samantha and a Bridget.
Samantha’s energy, but Bridget’s warmth.
Penelope is ready for Paris. She effortlessly packs her bags full of stylish yet colorful outfits. Alongside her pearls, she throws in her Keds sneakers for the long days of walking the city.
She’s ready for her big trip.
Mardi
Today is all about checking things off my checklist.
Nails painted. Tick.
Movies downloaded for the plane. Tick.
Bags mostly packed. Tick.
I’m 24 hours away from Paris.
Mercredi
Somehow, I knew taking a propranolol this morning was needed.
As I’m making sure all the last-minute bits are packed away and that I have my passport and important information for my trip, a text pops up on my phone.
“Your Air France flight from Boston to Charles de Gaulle has been cancelled.”
WHAT???
My heart drops to what feels like the bottom of the earth.
No. It can’t be. What the hell am I going to do?
As fast as my fingers can go, I go on the website, trying to figure out how to rebook. I know it’s a matter of speed because others will also be trying to get on the next flight to Paris, and I don’t have time to waste.
I find the customer service number and dial.
I remind myself to be pleasant and as patient as possible.
A lovely woman answers and apologizes for the inconvenience. The best they can do is rebook me on British Airways with a layover in Heathrow and then a flight to Charles de Gaulle if I want to stay in business class (business class was part of the treat to myself for this once-in-a-lifetime trip).
I’m not sure I can handle a change in airports, a layover, and all the unknowns right now.
I ask if there are any other Air France flights.
They have one this evening, but it’s not business class.
At this point, I don’t care.
I take it.
I’d rather go straight from Boston to Paris with the least amount of stress possible.
I’ve had enough of that today.
I remind myself that Penelope Jones can handle this.
Jeudi
10 AM Paris time, and I have arrived.
I grab my bags and head to the taxi stand. I pull out my notecard of French phrases and do some last-minute studying.
“Bonjour, Madame...”
“Bonjour, Madame,” I reply.
She directs me to my taxi.
“Merci.”
“De rien.”
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Je vais à l’Hôtel de Buci. Voici l’adresse,” I say, handing him the notecard with the address of my hotel.
“D’accord. Hôtel de Buci.”
We start down the autoroute, and I feel so proud.
I did it.
I spoke French, and he knew what I was saying.
I arrive at the hotel around 12 PM. My room is not quite ready, but they offer me a drink and to hold my bags.
I walk to the Jardin du Luxembourg for lunch at La Terrasse de Madame.
The waitress invites me to sit. I ask for “Une carafe d’eau” and order the steak au poivre avec frites.
As I wait for my meal to arrive, I eavesdrop on the women next to me. I imagine that they have been friends for ages and are spending a Thursday afternoon catching up on all of the local gossip.
Trees line the open courtyard. Their feather-like leaves are green and golden.
The women next to me ask me to watch her coat while she goes to the toilettes (at least, that is what I think she asks).
I say, “Oui.”
After a leisurely lunch, I stroll along the sandy path of the garden. I find a spot to sit on the Parisian sage-green chairs and call home.
All is well.
I sit for a while, but not too long. I feel the jet lag on my heels, and I fear that if I don’t get up and move, it will pull me down.
I walk around the garden admiring the statues, but primarily, I am intrigued by the little semicircular garden borders that look as though they’ve been made from sticks.
I bend down to touch them to see if they really are made of sticks.
They are. I think.
On my way back to the hotel, I stop in the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris, built in the 11th century, and light a candle for my dad. I buy a four-euro candle for the Pope’s visit and think it would make a nice gift for my mom.
It’s 4:00 PM, and I’m delighted to find out that my room is ready.
The elevator is broken, so I have to wind around a spiraling Parisian staircase to the third floor. In reality, it’s the fourth floor, since the French call the ground floor the ground floor, not the first.
Regardless, I am out of breath when I reach my room.
I open the door to my room and voilà!
I’m in love.
The room is decorated in classic French style, with beautiful fabric covering the walls and flowing into a crown over the bed. I feel like I am part of the charm of old-world Paris.
The lights are glowing.
But my favorite part...
I open the windows.
And I am in Paris.
I stand at my little French balcony, looking out over Saint-Germain.
I can hardly believe it.
My Paris adventure was only just beginning.
Until our next glass of champagne,
Abby