En Fin

06.10.09

Finally...I have the time to sit down and write. And where am I doing this? In the McDonalds - or, as the French say, "Mac Do" - which is about a 10 minute walk from my apartment. Irony...I come halfway around the world to sit in a restaurant which resembles almost exactly, the U.S....even down to its Play Place behind me, and the smell of fries and hamburgers lingering in the air. *Sigh.

So I suppose I'll catch you all up to this moment. This is going to be a long one...are you all buckled in, tray tables up? :)

So when I said goodbye to my parents at O'Hare, I got to my gate in approximately two seconds. This was the easy part of my journey, and I ended up waiting there for a good hour, hour and a half before boarding. I tried to use the free WiFi at O'Hare, but you have to have a prepaid service to connect...and I do not. Needless to say, I was pretty bored.

I boarded and was immediately struck by the British accents, and the precise and delicate way that the flight attendants carried out their duties. For the first time, I felt that my version of English was rugged, mumbly and untame....theirs was fluid, beautiful and poetic. Even their movements in perfectly choreographing the distribution of beverages and meals, the way they asked if I “care for sugar” in my coffee, the way they said “Madame” and “pardon”, and the people around me being delicately polite to one another...made me feel like a peasant in a royal court. Perhaps its an exaggeration...but never having been to England, this was the closest I've ever been to so-called “real” English.


When we landed in Heathrow airport, I had been excited to spend at least an hour in England – but when I checked my watch, I realized I barely had 40 minutes to get on the next flight before its gate closed. I shoved and elbowed my way to the front of the plane...not very British of me, but hell, I'm American. At least I said 'excuse me.'

I spent the next 15 minutes or so sprinting across the airport, bypassing lines of other passengers. I prayed that the fact that I had already gotten the boarding pass in Chicago would help me...turns out, once I got to security, it did. I ducked under the dividing lines, and pleaded with other people to let me pass. I only had about 10 minutes before the gate closed...and I had no idea how far I would have to run after making it through security. People generously let me cut in front of them, and seemed generally sympathetic to my cause...except for the Indian security guard behind the conveyor belt, who made me wait a seemingly inordinate amount of time. He tried to tell me just to wait for the next flight to France, which was only in 3 hours...but I told him hastily that a friend was waiting for me in Paris at the airport, and neither of us had cell phones yet. It would be a mess if I just didn't show up.

Finally I was out, and sprinting past the gates, keeping my eyes pealed for A22 and meanwhile adjusting my backpack over my shoulders. Finally I saw it, and they were announcing my seats as I approached, breathing heavily, sweating like a pig. People looked at me, startled, as I heaved my way into line. Just in time.

I found my way to my seat and waited for the plane to take off. Now all around me, I heard the mumbling, sugary sweet sound of French...”real” French. The rising and falling intonations of overly-annunciated phrases, and the high-society laughter that only seemed to remind me of the arrogant tourists in Senegal. I missed African French accents, their honest, clear, sing-songing, but flat-sounded French that was easy to understand and not laced with complicated expressions.

I watched out the window as we soared over the English channel, far below I saw a tiny cruise ship sailing through the expansive crystal water as the sunlight flickered off the waves. I couldn't help comparing all of it to Senegal...cruise ships? Other Americans who had never been to Europe pointed excitedly out the windows below, and I couldn't help missing the simplicity and lack of luxury of Senegal...the undiscovered beauty among the pollution and smiling strangers on the street.
I felt strangely un-excited as France appeared below us...and I imagined how stark the language change was as the farms expanded from the sea backward toward the inland....from English only a few miles away, to French. I was numb. The French accents around me got more and more excited as Paris appeared below, and the plane started to descend. I was even more irritated by them...given that I understood about 70% of it even though they murmured like there were rocks in their mouth... and most of it was complaining. The plane was too hot, Paris' weather wasn't good, their luggage better be there when they arrived...
The plane landed in the airport, and rapid and tired French mumbled over the intercom, and I stood up, gathered my backpack. I waited behind two French people my age, who were covered in South American garb and dreadlocks. I would later find out that this is one of the “looks” in France right now...the “cultured, traveled hippie.” They looked with disdain on the group of mid-50-year-old French people ahead of us...those who had been complaining.

Finally I broke out into the airport with the rest of the passengers, and blinked at the signs in French, following the herd toward the baggage claim. I must have stood there for at least 20 minutes, and finally the conveyor belt was empty. Everyone had left. “Madame...Ceer-ee-bas-ee...pleez come to zee information countar...” I heard over the intercom. Great.......I thought to myself. I knew something was going to go wrong.

I made my way to the information counter and disappointed myself by starting the conversation in English. They told me in broken English that my baggage was still in London and hadn't made it on the next plane. They had assumed I wouldn't make my connecting flight, and held my baggage...how nice of them. I gave them the address of the hostel Tiffany and I had made reservations at, and asked them if they could deliver it there as soon as the plane landed...they could, and would do it before 6:00pm. I crossed my fingers that this would actually happen.

Tiffany was waiting outside, and on the way out of the airport, she demanded to stop at McDonald's. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but since I saw “free WiFi” on the sign, I consented to at least wait inside while she ordered her hamburger. I pulled out my laptop and emailed my friends and family to let everyone know that I was alive. While Tiffany was in line, I noticed many of the French passers-by staring at me...openly, without shame. And not in a “oh sorry, I was dazing off” way, but in a blatant, 'I'm judging you' way. For the first time since before I went to Senegal, I felt fat and unattractive. I knew I was still in my sweaty, two-day old outfit...and everyone around me was skinny, put-together, with high leather boots and the latest brand-name fashion. I was irritated, but Tiffany said curtly, “You'll get over it.” I wasn't sure I would.

For approximately $10, Tiffany was handed a tiny hamburger, a tiny box of fries, and a microscopic “medium” drink. I was appalled. For about double what we pay in the States, you get half as much...not like I miss McDonald's at all...cheap, low-quality meet and greasy fries doesn't exactly hold a place in my heart. Little did I know that I would find myself at McDonald's more often in the next two weeks than I've been in the last 2 years....because of their free WiFi.

We went downstairs and found the train into Paris, and waited about 20 minutes. I tried to listen to the French around me, but found that for the first time in a while, I was having difficulties. It was definitley the accent...I understood around 90% of what I heard in Senegal...a voice inside my head suddenly was saying, “That's because it isn't 'real French.” I hated myself for saying that...granted French isn't their first language, it's definitley a language that they legitimize. They speak it well, correctly, and fluently...Parisien French isn't the only way to speak. Just like American English is just as legitimate as London English. Just because Parisiens think they represent the highest standard of French, doesn't mean it was true. Language is a means of communication that can and is modified from culture to culture, all over the world – there is no such thing as standard. Plus, language is always changing...modern Parisien French is mixed with Arabic and English more so than Senegalese French is, anyway. Ok, enough of my ranting about France French.

The train pulled up and we got on. We chatted while I watched out the window, as the typically French houses and apartments passed by, with their intricate iron wrought balconies and chipped stone walls. Looming HLM lower income housing passed in the distance, the “ghetto's” of Paris. Bad English was scribbled on walls and passing trains as colorful graffiti.

Finally we pulled into the train station in Paris. I followed Tiffany in a daze, fatigue suddenly sinking in and distraction with sights, smells and sounds...I don't really remember getting on the metro or even paying for a ticket. But somehow I ended up in a noisy, crowded “quartier” of Paris – in the greater Montmartre, and as I descended the stairs, there were Arab men everywhere trying to get me to buy Marlboro cigarettes at a discounted price...and my heart broke to see Serer Senegalese women with their mouths tinted black, begging for money...their beautifully colored fabrics a stark contrast to the dirty beige of the sidewalk. They had the typical gold hoops in their ears and the silver Senegalese bracelets with balls on the ends that were so familiar to me. They reminded me of women selling beignets or gerte sukkar in Dakar...and they left Dakar to come to France....to do the same thing...

I followed Tiffany across the tiny, narrow street where seemingly miniature cars buzzed around us. Surprisingly, there wasn't much litter...although Tiffany and I noticed the “mystery water” that drizzled across the sidewalk, and puddles of it that shown in the sun. Arab men chatted inside corner boutiques where deep red slabs of meat sat under display glass, and Arab women read behind counters, surrounded by baguettes and other bread which emitted a pleasant aroma. People pushed past me with crying infants, adjusted their black head scarves, and boxes sat outside on the sidewalk displaying fleece jackets for 12 Euro.

Occasionally dark Africans would sail past me with their long, distinctive gaits...and I wondered if they were Senegalese...but they didn't catch my eye the way they would have if we were in Dakar. They stared straight ahead and had the same cold, uninterested expression on their faces, as everyone else did. Then I saw a man across the street, probably about 60 years old or so, walking slowly and distinctly with a flowing, powder blue “boubou” that blew about him with the breeze. People raced past him, but he was walking slowly, the way Papa told Melanie and I to in Dakar... “flanner”....to “stroll.” He had a white Serer knit hat on his head, a stark contrast to his rich black skin. He was a gem in the midst of the flurry of noise and bodies around me. I excitedly pointed him out to Tiffany, as this was the first time I had seen someone in a boubou since I had been in Senegal, and I missed their striking beauty....but I realized quickly that this was something I would have to keep to myself. She didn't share in my excitement...couldn't relate.

Our hostel was just across from the metro stop, and had a neon sign outside that said “Friend's Hostel.” We walked in to a tiny, crowded reception area with a black and white tiled floor and a mirror behind us to give the illusion that it was bigger than it was. I was thankful I didn't have all of my baggage to lug around behind me. We pulled out our reservation information, and sat there for a while chatting with the young Arab guy behind the counter, who was originally from Algeria and spent 6 years in London. I told him that my baggage was supposed to come from the airport soon, and asked if there was a room it could be kept in. He said yes, there was a room they kept luggage in, that was 'monitored' by the staff at the front desk right next to it. Good enough...but I was glad I had purchased locks for them.

We climbed the rickety, semi-spiraled wooden staircase up the hallway, which was bright red. There was only one floor, and we entered the hallway which stung our noses with the smell of paint. Two Chinese men were squatted on the floor and said in bad French, “Bonjour,” as they painted the walls bright orange...which reminded Tiffany and I of University of Illinois' colors. The bottom half of the wall was a bit darker than Illini blue...:)

Our room, 16, was purple. And not just any purple. If you could take that McDonald's character that's purple...I forgot his name...that was the color of our walls. The brightest, most ridiculous purple you can imagine. The beds were bunked, and without pillows. I would have to use a sweatshirt. We had a minuscule shower and sink, but no toilet. We would have to share one down the hall...boys and girls would have to share the toilet, because the men's toilet was clogged, for all the world to see. I wasn't disappointed though...the hostel was only 17 Euro a night. You can't really ask for much more beside a place to wash, use the toilet, and sleep.

We went right out after that to find a phone. We walked several blocks, my eyes fixated on passing Senegalese wearing bright green and purple boubou's...again, avoiding my gaze. We passed patisseries displaying the familiar, beautifully and meticulously made pastries.... yellow “promotion” banners calling from open boutiques. Most people that passed were Arab. Most Arab men made comments to me, which I responded to by giggling...Tiffany finally told me again to “get over it.” I realized since she had done the year-long assistantship the year before, most of the things that struck me .... such as the constant displays of affection in public (one teenage couple felt it unavoidable to lay down on the dirty sidewalk to make out in the middle of the city) ... had already struck her, and were now second-nature. Perhaps they hadn't ever struck her. Perhaps it would become second-nature to me too.

We went into an SFR boutique (one of France's cellphone companies), and didn't like the prices scribbled on slips of paper, so we continued on. We got on the Metro and traveled into the center of Paris. The entire time I strained my ears for Wolof as soon as I saw Senegalese getting onto the train...but was disappointed when they all spoke French in the same mumbly way as the Parisians.
Tiffany took me to a “centre commercial” (mall) just above a metro stop. People milled in and out of clothing shops and jewelry stores...I decided I was too thirsty to stand it anymore. A Jamba Juice equivalent stared me down from across the walkway, and I was lured in. I paid about 5 Euro for a mango/orange/banana smoothie...that was again, miniature, half-filled and watery. It wasn't at sweet and thick as I was expecting...and I must say I was a bit disappointed. Fruit smoothies is something the U.S. definitley has down, and I haven't been able to find anywhere else.

Finally, we found one of the main SFR shops. Which of course meant that there was a line. About 15 people stood impatiently and silently along the center of the shop, which other people looked at the phones on display. Tags of various “forfaits” or “abonnaments” - plans – that were available with different phones for a cheaper price, were displayed behind glass. It all looked just ever-s0-slightly familiar. In fact, it really reminded me of MidAmerica Wireless – where I worked over the summer.

We waited for a while, people giving us strange looks as we babbled on in English...until we approached a young girl at a podium-type contraption, looking very professional with a pen and clipboard. She asked for our names, and why we had come in. We told her we wanted to learn more about cell phones. She suggested getting a “pre-paye” phone – basically a go-phone – until we had a bank account and proof of salary, where we could get a shortened contract for cheaper. We decided to go with that. We had to wait again though....so we went just outside the doors on the side, which opened up to a concrete courtyard in the middle of the shopping center. French youth stood around smoking and horsing around. Some girl came up to me and said, “Avez-vous une cigarette?” In lazy, mumbly French. And when I answered clearly, “J'en ai pas,” (I don't have any), she said, “Comment?” irritably. I repeated it, knowing it was grammatically correct. Hearing my non-Parisien accent, she sighed even more irritably, and pushed past me, mumbling, “americaine.” Well excuuuse me.......

They called Tiffany and I back into the boutique, and we were set up with one of the cashiers, all young Arab men, except for one beautifully tall and full-lipped African girl. They seemed busy and uninterested, and with Tiffany's brutally-American accent, they seemed to have even less patience. They then took their sweet time getting us set up...and even stopped for at least 10 minutes to chat to each other about some girl they met the weekend before. Finally I said, “C'est fait?” (is it done?) And they sensed my impatience. The one guy then mumbled something to me, not expecting me to catch it, and laughed to the other guy. “Quoi?” I said, annoyed. He repeated it, looking at his friend the whole time, pretending to put my new “free” Samsung phone into his pocket. I only heard the last part, which was, “Can I have your phone?” It was definitley an arrogant joke, mocking the extremely low quality of my phone. Maybe hardly anyone actually got the free cell phone....well Excuuuse me again....I'm a poor American who won't be paid for another two months....

I was tired, irritated and annoyed, and was starting to get a headache...Tiffany and I left the store with our new phones. I'm not a Blackberry kind of girl anyway, and I was perfectly content with my simple Samsung bar phone, that does absolutely nothing beside send/receive texts and make/receive calls. It IS a cellphone after all. As long as it doesn't drop calls, then I don't really care....

We went up the outdoor escalator and texted our friends from the upper level of the cement courtyard. A bunch of preteen French kids chased each other, screaming French vulgarities to each other, calling each other sluts and bitches and worse. Then they all pulled out cigarettes and started smoking. I suddenly had a mild panic attack and thought to myself...what did I get myself into....this is the age group I'm going to be teaching. These loud, obnoxious, slightly self-destructive pre-pubescent kids...how am I going to manage...I watched them with disdain.

Tiffany and I found a cheap Pasta place where you pick the type of pasta, the sauce, the dessert and the drink, for 11 Euro. I realized that this was starting to add up. The place was set up with long tables perpendicular to the wall, and we shared it with other customers...there was an overweight woman with a redheaded afro on a first date with an African man who was trying way too hard to impress her...a group of four teenagers, two of which Tiffany was sure were gay...and two couples on a double date. Our waitresses seemed really uninterested and rude as well...till they came over at the end of our meal and said, “My college and I were wondering...are you two American or British? American? Oh really? Where are you from?”

We continued walking around Paris at night, crossing over the bridge to gaze down the Sein at ancient, classical cathedrals and buildings in Renaissance architecture looming over the water, reflected in yellowish and blue light. Tiffany then insisted on buying a specific brand of shampoo that apparently is sold nowhere in France, because we went into about 20 Afro-hair shops, complete with hundreds of different brands and hundreds of different wigs and hair extensions in every color and texture you can imagine. We went into a pharmacy that had a complete grocery store upstairs...throughout this whole ordeal, a young guy from Cote d'Ivoire started following me around...just as would have happened in Senegal. It was the first bit of attention I had gotten from anyone...and it reminded me of Senegal, so secretly enjoyed his company and let him follow us around and “help us” find the next hair boutique. When he asked for my number, however, as expected, I of course denied him in the nicest way I could.

The next day, I texted my friend Bastien to see if we could get together. He was a French friend I had met at U of I last year...he was working in the biolab. He had gotten in contact with me about the English conversation tables we were having with the Congolese...and had even come to some of our parties. I figured...perhaps an American assumption...that if I texted him to say I was in Paris, we could spend a few hours together catching up. The response I got was, “I'll meet you at the Gare du Nord at 3:00pm.” Ok...fair enough.

Tiffany and I met up with them at the station, and I got a text saying, “We're here.” I found that kind of strange, because he hadn't mentioned anyone else coming with. Then I saw Bastien motioning to me across the Station, outside, and I went over. There was a French girl next to him, with her arms crossed, barely cracking a grin. He introduced her as his girlfriend. I introduced myself, and tried my best to be pleasant...it was obvious that she wanted to come with to see who this “american girl that her boyfriend met last year” was. The jealousy was overwhelmingly obvious. Bastien 'bisou'ed' me, and said promptly, “We have somewhere to be soon, so we can't spend too much time with you.” “Ok,” I said, finding that a little strange.

We started walking to a place Bastien had already picked out for some beer. He didn't even ask us what we wanted to do, or where we wanted to go. Him and his girlfriend walked up ahead of us, hand in hand, barely speaking to us. She didn't ask anything about me, didn't make any effort to find out who I was. Bastien at one point turned around and asked, “How was Senegal?” Excited at an opportunity to talk about Senegal, I started with, “It was amazing, I loved it. It's so different from the West...I want to go back and work.” He just nodded politely. I was expecting more from him, a more detailed question, perhaps asking what exactly what I did there....what exactly I liked about it...and why exactly I would want to return. Nothing of the sort. He didn't really care. “Africa is amazing,” I continued as a closing statement. “You really should try and visit Africa at least once.” I caught them glancing at each other with a grin, rolling their eyes with an....”as if” look.

We bought some beer and sat down to a table outside a really industrial type bar in the middle of what Bastien described as “hippie ville.” A high-risen river flowed next to us, and the cobblestone street was car free...kids peddled down on kid-sized bikes, dogs chasing after them with no leashes, parents sauntering behind, mixed couples everywhere with bizarre clothes on...and a hostel nearby called “Peace and Love.” We drank our plastic cups of beer in awkward silence, as Bastien continually stared at his watch. Tiffany complained of being really tired all the sudden, and was really struggling with her French. I asked Bastien how many years he had left of school because I totally forgot that he had graduated a while ago, and had come to U of I strictly to work...I thought he might have been working and studying still while in France, or took a year off to come to the United States. But apparently this mistake offended him, and while his girlfriend chuckled, he stared at me intently in the eyes and said, “No, I graduated a long time ago. I work.” “Oh, sorry,” I said.

Overall it was a horrible experience. Lots of jokes gone sour, and awkward pauses....and me babbling to fill the silence, which is never a good thing. Then they abruptly got up and said, “we have to go the Gare de Lyon,” and they shook our hands....we didn't even get a bisous that time, and they left.

While I pondered the whole experience and why it didn't go well...it must have been something to do with cultural misunderstanding...I wasn't sure. Tiffany then reprimanded me again for “letting things get to me” and “thinking too much.” She told me that I'm not a very open-minded person because I have “tunnel vision” about “how the world is, and how people are.” I don't tend to agree with this statement about myself, but I can see how she would get that impression. I am very vocal about what I notice, and I notice everything...I also over-analyse. I don't just look at something at let it go...I have to mull it over and think about it. This doesn't mean I'm judging, or think that my way is the best way...although in many cases in French culture – I simply deem it to be downright rude. Whether there are different levels of impoliteness which are acceptable in France, its still impolite to me. Being open minded doesn't mean being endlessly tolerant and never noticing/being shocked at something...it means not having pre-conceived notions about how a culture SHOULD be, and then judging it according to your own standards. But you can still have a reaction.

Tiffany and I ate at a cafe outside, and after trying to order three separate times and being told that they were “out” which is a common occurrence in French restaurants, we ended up eating pizza. Which wasn't the worst pizza I've had in France, it was thicker than usual. They must be used to serving tourists. Meanwhile a child played on his skateboard in the street, darting in and out of oncoming traffic while his overly-nervous mother screamed at him in horror. Her other, younger child, meanwhile took a steak knife behind us and proceeded to wield it at his mother's back. Dogs were everywhere, and very strange looking people....and a ton of people on bikes. The sun set over the river below where we were sitting, and the city darkened, lights blinked on, and we started walking back to the metro after we paid for dinner.

The next morning, Tiffany left at around 9:00am, and I began to wonder how I should get to Orleans. I asked the guy at the desk, and he said I should walk only about 5 minutes away to the Gare du Nord, where a bunch of taxis sit and wait for people coming out of the station. This wasn't the station I would need to leave for Orleans, I would need to leave from Gare d'Austerlitz, which was on the other side of town. The Arab guy with whom I had chatted the first day at the hostel was there, and I asked him to write down the address to the hostel for me so that I could show the taxi driver where to stop by to pick up my luggage.

I therefore left all my luggage downstairs in the 'monitored' room, while I walked five minutes away to find the Gare du Nord. After asking the last taxi in line, thinking it was by random that you choose taxi drivers...turns out, he politely informed me, I was supposed to ask the first taxi in line. I asked the first taxi, who was a Portguese man in his late 50's, if he could pass by my hostel and get my luggage, at the address written on the slip of paper I gave him. “That's no problem,” he told me, and I got in.

However, after about 15 minutes, we still hadn't arrived at the hostel. In fact I think we had passed it about 10 minutes earlier, but since there were so many one-way streets, I thought maybe he knew of another way to get around to the hostel....a way you could cut across if you were walking. So I kept my mouth shut.

I decided to say something however, when I noticed we were in a pretty ritzy part of town – and my hostel definitley wasn't – with a gigantic expansive road heading into downtown...”This isn't it...” I said quietly. “What?” He demanded from the front seat. “This isn't right,” I said again, a little louder. He raised up the slip of paper I had given him. “Is it not 122 Rue de la Chapelle?” He said defensively, in a heavy Portguese accent, pronnouncing “chapelle” like “chapell-y”. “Yes, I think so,” I replied, “But I didn't write it. It was the man who works at the hostel who wrote it.” The case was dropped, and we continued on a bit longer.

Then I said again, “This surely isn't right.” He raised his voice even more and said, “Madame, I am following the address you gave me. If this isn't right, you have to tell me! You can't just sit there and not say anything! You have to tell me where to go, otherwise you shouldn't have got into the taxi!” “I'm American,” I said, my voice cracking a bit, stress rising. “I don't know my way around...I don't know these streets...I just know its by the metro station, the one that is risen off the ground, that you go up stairs to get to.” A pause. “You mean Boulevard de la Chapelle,” he said loudly. “This is RUE de la Chapelle!” “I don't know,” I said, “Again, the guy at the hostel wrote the address for me!”

He did a hasty U-turn in the middle of the huge road, and went back the other direction. I looked at the meter and realized it was up to 16 euro already. Great...I would end up paying more than double what I originally planned on, in order to get to Gare Austerlitz. Briefly, I hoped he wouldn't make me pay for it. But then I knew that was silly...I wasted his gas...someone would have to pay for it.

We got back to “Friend's Hostel” about 10 minutes later, and he parked outside. At this point, the driver had stopped being defensive and hostile, and was sort of on my side...like a father figure. He had now started calling me, “ma fille” (my girl), and even went in with me to complain to the guy at the counter for giving me the wrong address. He said in a gruff, loud voice, in rapid French, “You wrote the wrong address....get it right, its Boulevard de la Chapelle, not Rue de la Chapelle.” The guy behind the counter grinned a little and said, “Oh oops, sorry.” “Don't apologize to me,” the taxi driver said, “Apologize to this young lady, who has to pay the difference.” And with that, he stormed out to the taxi to wait for me. I brought the suitcases out and helped him load them into the taxi, and I went back inside. I was pretty sure that it would be fair to ask the guy behind the counter (with whom I had been pretty chummy with), would help me out...considering it was his fault!

I waited for him to give me the time of day, but he just pretended I wasn't there, and continued helping the other people around his desk, laughing and carrying on. I coughed, and leaned on the counter, but it didn't help. The Spanish guy that also works there, equally as young – maybe 26 – came over and said, “Yes?” “Look, I don't have a lot of money,” I said, “I can't afford to pay the extra 20 euro...and it was his fault for miswriting the address...” I raised my eyebrows at him, and was almost 100% sure he understood what I was implying. He paused and said, “Alright, I'll see what he can do. Wait.” I definitley heard this.

So I waited about two minutes, and still being ignored, I said, “Look, the taxi driver is waiting for me...” The Arab guy stopped talked and looked at me, as if looking at me for the first time in his life...his eyes glazed over and blank. “Yea? What do you need?” I stopped and stared at him. “I would like you to help me,” I said. “You wrote the address wrong, and now I owe the taxi driver nearly 20 Euro.” He blinked. “I don't understand,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” “I want you to help me,” I repeated helplessly, dumbly....I fumbled for more words. Because I was so unhinged, I felt myself losing my confidence. “I still don't understand,” he said again, shaking his head, and looking at his friend, the Spanish guy who had told me to wait. “Do you understand what this girl wants?” “Nope, I don't understand either,” he repeated, shrugging. Disgusted, I just walked out.

On the way to the station, the taxi driver looked in the rear-view mirror to see a very small and very upset American girl staring out the window at the Seine as we crossed the bridge. Tears quivered in her eyes, and her face was supported by a fist. “What's the matter, ma bella?” he said. “You look sad!” “No, I'm ok,” I said, forcing a smile. “It's just my third day in France, and already people are taking advantage of me...and things aren't going very well.” “Don't worry, my dear,” he replied, “things will get better. Just forget about those guys back there.” Then his boss called, and they talked loudly and rapidly over the speakers in Portguese/French. I heard him telling his boss about me, hearing “fille americaine” and “20 euro”, etc etc.....again a thought flickered in my mind that his boss might take pity on me and not make me pay the 20 euro. But all I got was a “Is she beautiful?” In French, meaning the boss wanted me to hear....to cheer me up. “Oh yes, she's beautiful!” The driver responded jovially. I laughed, “Merci,” I said. “C'est gentille.” “Don't worry, ma fille,” he said. “Things will look up from here.”

I got out at the Gare d'Austerlitz and paid about 30 euro for a taxi ride that should have costed 14. Armed with two enormous suitcases and a backpack, I made my way to the ticket counter. I struggled to hear the woman who spoke curtly and quickly with me in French, meanwhile showing a new trainee behind the counter how to do everything. She thrusted my ticket at me, and when I asked when the next train to Orleans was, she said with a “duh” attitude, pointing to the large, automated schedule on the wall “11:41am.” “Merci, bonne journee,” I said, walking away. The woman didn't bother to explain to me what the little yellow machines everywhere were for...apparently I had to validate my ticket at one of these, otherwise it wouldn't count for anything on the train....without a date of validation, I would try to use the ticket over and over again. Whoops. Luckily the train conductor was sympathetic....and the French people in my train cabin I had been talking to stuck up for me and explained that I didn't know.

I also didn't know how to find the gate. The automated board didn't say anything about which gate. I gathered up my courage to ask a SNCF worker (which is the train company in France). He was wearing a smart blue suit that fit him awkwardly, and a bright red tie. He looked a little bit like a conductor from Thomas the Tank Engine, or a similar kid's show. He told me that in about 10 minutes the gate would show up on the board. I thanked him and waited, aware of people's stares as they looked up from their fashion magazines. Birds flitted in and out of the rafters above, in the brightly-lit station from the sunlight that spilled in through the glass ceiling.

I had to go a pretty long way to find the train, which was around the corner. Carrying about 110 pounds of luggage divided between two arms, with about 30 pounds on my back, I felt like a pack mule, and was heaving like one as I approached the train. Struggling to hoist my suitcases up the stairs to the train car, people took pity on me and helped me lift them....but not without laughing at me first. I laughed along, and explained that I was away for 7 months to teach English...of course I would have this much stuff. They didn't seem interested in an explanation.

I found a car and the guy helped me get my suitcases up above. He was in his late twenties, with gigantic classes and a definite Jew fro stretching out in every direction. He then started chatting with me, very interested in what I was about to do. Turns out he is from Orleans, and then proceeded to tell me that Orleans is “nul” - stupid, there's nothing there, nothing to do. I said “not every city can be Paris...I enjoy small towns.” “Oh, its not a small town,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “There's just nothing interesting about it.” “Ok, well I'll judge for myself,” I said. I spent the next hour writing in my journal.

About 40 minutes into the ride however, an announcement came over the intercom. All I managed to grasp was that the train wasn't going to Orleans anymore, and we would have to take a tram. The other people in my cabin told me that sometimes the trains just randomly do that...and no one knows why. Maybe it was another strike. Basically, it was going to skip Orleans, and at the first stop, there was a free tram we were supposed to transfer to that would take us there. I had no idea if it was going to be the same train station....where Anna was supposed to meet me. And I had no more credit to tell her if it was going to change...

The guy helped me get my suitcases off the top shelft and out of the train...I lugged them across the “quai” to the tram across the way, and some other people helped me lift it up there. This tram took another 15 minutes to pull into Orleans...thankfully, the same station I would have arrived had, had the train actually gone all the way there. I got off the train painfully, and by this time the muscles in my arms and thighs felt like jello...and I felt like I was dragging blocks for the Pyramids of Egypt.

I made it into the station, and there was a small, thin blond girl waiting for me, smiling big. I gave her a tired and probably smelly hug, and I thankfully accepted when she offered to take one of my suitcases. “Jeez...how did you get all this stuff in these?” Then we took off for the bus.

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