Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

01: Nous sommes arrive

We’re here.  I’m not sure what day it is or what time (the lady who owns the apartment we’ve rented doesn’t like Daylight Savings Time or something, because all the clocks are an hour off from anything I can figure), but we’re here.

The flight was on time, and I love the Airbus with the two-seaters on the outside of the aisle, but I was stuck behind an old Gotta-Recline-All-The-Time geezer and in front of a Gotta-Kick-When-I’m-Bored tweenager.  Not too impressed with Charles-de-Gaulle airport, where we literally taxied down a hill to get to the parking lot, where, even though Air France is this nation’s premiere airline, we still had to disembark onto the tarmac and take a 12-minute bus ride (which included two sudden stops in the middle of 4 acres of empty asphalt—what does he see that we can’t?) before we got to the actual terminal.  Customs was a breeze (“Bonjour” [thunk-thunk of the stamp] “Merci”), and we decided on a cab from the airport instead of the train.  Turns out, our cab driver has a cousin in Lynnwood and comes to Seattle all the time—small world.

We found the apartment without problem and trundled up the 18^th century staircase—up 3 flights (53 steps) to the top floor.  Took photos out our living room window of the Arene de Lutece, just as the clouds opened up again with rain and all the children fled the park, leaving only the sounds of the raindrops and the doves in the trees.

We were told it was Sunday (fooled me) and we only had an hour before the markets closed up (I still didn’t know what time it was).  Needing food more than a bathe, we headed out, walking from rue Linné over to rue Monge where we were told there were markets (and even a supermarket) down past the row of booksellers.  The idea of standing in line at a boulangerie only to be faced with a bewildering array of baguettes (traditionale, normale, demi-cout, bien-cout) and to then stand there dumb while a rank of Parisians impatient to get to their Sunday dinner grew behind me, well, it was too much, so we went to the supermarket and bought several bags of food that, in America, would be considered good but here, would cause noses to rise in disdain.  On the way back, though, we found the real market, across the street in an open square, where there were stalls selling, simply put, the best of everything.  Meat, fish, lobster, cheese, fruit and veg that made me whimper (the mache! oh, the mache!)  People were lined up to get freshly roasted chickens for €6.  Exhausted, we just did not have the energy to attempt to form even the most basic of French phrases, so we crept away with our bag of substandard supermarket swag and came home.

So here I sit, sipping my €3 wine, realizing that after all that, we still don’t have any bread, unless you count the supermarket bag of pain du chocolat.

Good enough for Day One, eh?

Anyway, we’re here, we’re safe, and we’re going to take a nap and listen to French birds sing outside our window.

k

While the French were at their Sunday supper, we wandered our neighborhood and found…um…Notre Dame.  It being Sunday, Mass was being said, sung, played.  We stayed through the service, lit a candle for Ste. Jeanne d’Arc, and headed home.

Oh, and we bought some baguettes en route.

k