(This blog, my first, is about my trip to Paris in October of 2008. Much of it is taken from my journal--some of which I wrote while visiting a particular landmark, some of which I wrote in my hotel room at night, so excuse any changes in verb tense. I listened to some French CDs for a few months before I left, so I'll throw a word or phrase in here or there. All my French will be in italics. You'll be able to keep up--I know very little.)






It's a struggle to stay coherent enough to write these words. I knew, when I booked the flight, that I’d get no sleep on the plane. You know those people who conk out on the sofa with the TV on? I’m not one of those people. I need my bed, my blackness, my white noise. Somewhere over the Atlantic I put on my headphones and played soft classical music, closed my eyes, but it wasn’t happening, and I knew it wouldn’t happen. I gave up and watched The Transporter—not exactly Shakespeare, but it passed a few hours.

And then, those first strips of light on the horizon, and I dialed up the interactive map on the seatback’s screen to see where we were. Yes, it was a thrill flying over the gold and brown and green quilt of southern England, zipping over the freighters in the Channel—and that first view of the coastline of France, of continental Europe. Cross a big one off the to-do list.



And, passing north of Paris, look far out, stabbing through the haze—is that the top half of the most-recognize structure on earth? What else could it be?

All in all, it was one smooth ride, only a few bumps somewhere over the ocean. Well done, Northwest.




After I landed, went through customs, and got my luggage, I had to kill a few hours at l’aeroport—my hotel wouldn’t let me check in until 2 p.m. I slipped on my ipod and listened to some downloads from Detroit’s sports talk radio that I’d been saving up for the last few weeks.

A young woman—who was dressed like, I don’t know, sort of a cross between a punk rocker and a gypsy—walked up and handed me a sheet of paper. I looked it over, then back at her. It was some sort of sob story, some sort of appeal, and I gave her my best quizzical expression.

“English?” she said.

I shook my head. A few posters on travel forums had said that this was an effective deterrent, and it was. She politely took the paper and walked away.

Involuntarily I rubbed my belly, felt the reassuring bump of my money belt.

I finally took the Air France bus to Gare Lyon, then rolled my suitcase across the Seine (that sounds so cool) to l’hotel.




You know how lions can immediately spot weak antelope? Well, Parisian hotel clerks can easily spot someone who doesn’t speak French. When I walked up to the front desk I said, “Bonjour,” and thought it sounded pretty damn good. But it didn’t fool the clerk: She smiled and addressed me in English.

She asked me how I was doing.

“Je suis fatigue,” I said, thus using up one of the seven or eight French sentences I knew.

She smiled again.




I spent about 45 minutes unpacking and fighting the urge to take a nap—that could easily throw my internal clock out of whack and screw up the next few days. I ran a few blocks down Blvd. de L’Hospital to grab some milk and Diet Coke—or, as they call it here, Coke Light.

By the time I got back to my hotel and unfolded a few more things, my eyelids weighed about fifty pounds, so I forced myself to go for a walk. Across the street from my hotel, behind the Paleontology Section of the Natural History Museum, is the Jardin des Plantes. So I took a long walk through the gardens.



Last year I read a book called The Anatomy of a Rose: Exploring the Secret Life of Flowers, and found it fasincating--the biology of pollination, the tricks a flower uses to ensure the best pollinators keep coming back.

So, it must have looked bizarre to anyone walking through the gardens this afternoon: You had couples strolling hand-in-hand past the roses, you had little kids running around the saplings, and you had this American idiot bent over a purple flower and watching a monarch butterfly crawl inside. And I got up close, and saw the butterfly dip a "leg" from its head deep into the flower--so that's how you spread pollen around. And I got even closer, less than a foot away, so close that I actually whispered to the butterfly, "Dude, doesn't this bother you?"



I kept on going—when I exited the gardens, I told myself to use a huge yellow crane nearby as a lighthouse—and walked through some streets of the Latin Quarter. I went up Rue Monge, with its cream neo-classical apartments, then back down the very narrow and very cobbled Rue Mouffetard, a great little walking area. Butchers, bistros, cafes, women’s fashion, bakeries, trinket shops. Parisians with places to go and ears to smother with cell phones—some things are universal.



I stopped at a sidewalk stand that had chicken breasts roasting and oval potatoes warming in bins below. A young couple ordered a large chicken breast and scoop of potatoes, which the vendor shoveled into a paper bag. After he rang them up, he came out and said “Bonjour” to me.

“Bonjour,” I said. “Je voudrais le meme chose, sil v’plais.”

(“I would like the same thing, please.”)

He nodded.

And after he rang me up, after I said, “Merci beaucomp,” he replied, “Thank you.” As I walked away I giggled, so jazzed that I was able to communicate in a foreign language, however novice that communication was.



And when I walked back through the park—it took a twists and turns to finally see the crane again—I almost bumped into many Parisians. Almost stepped on them, actually. I’m talking about the pigeons—fearless, lazy, or both, and citizens as much as any of us.

An indication of what this city is like: Along the paths of the park sit many empty chairs, and rarely in a line. Rather, the chairs are always positioned in a huddle of two, three, or four, never just one—and all in a circle, facing each other, as if a conversation had just ended and one was expected to replace it soon.

I sat down on a bench near one of the park’s entrances. This was something I’d been telling myself to do—not just see the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, but take some time to relax and watch Paris go by.

A pigeon, five feet in front of me, picked up a small wood chip with its beak, and used it as a drill to scatter a small area of pebbles, to check for any morsels hidden below. Quite ingenious. And the bird looked pissed when it found nothing but dirt underneath.

I've never seen that before. Maybe the birds are smarter in Europe.




And that was basically it, my first day in Paris. Yes, I could’ve gone out and saw something grand, something significant, but I decided that wouldn’t be smart. When I was in New York last year I went to the Met after a sleepless night, and it was like walking around in the haze of a bad hangover. The Orsay is open tonight until 9:45—but why go there when I’m so tired I’ll be bumping into Manets? No, my goal for today was simply staying awake until 8 p.m. When I couldn't walk another step, I returned to my hotel--although that required more steps, I suppose--slid a chair to the window, and watched people walk down Rue Buffon.

At 7:30 p.m. I flipped on the TV, and stumbled across Grease, dubbed in French with English subtitles--except for the songs, which remained in English and were subtitled in French. It served as interesting background noise as I sat down at the desk and wrote about my day--it's on right now, "Greased Lightning" just ended. Once in a while I'll take a break to watch the movie and get some last-minute language practice--I've always wondered how you say "hydromatic" in French.

(I'm fading fast--I just dotted an "o." Time for bed.)