As expected, this leg of my trip has been very unique. Canada excluded, France is the first foreign country I have been to where I can drink the water and flush the paper. Oh, so luxurious, and I feel so undeserving. It has been a lot of fun, and very interesting, but it is funny to me how I have felt more uncomfortable here at times than in many other countries I have been to, albeit for completely different reasons.
The flight from Seattle, through Iceland, was magical, as is any first step on what promises to be a fantastic voyage. Despite the bare bones service (hey, the flight was cheap), the excitement kept my hunger and thirst at bay. Landing in Iceland was so mysterious. Where is Reykjavik, the capital city? All I could see was an expanse of fog-soaked vibrant green rolls as the sun revealed the island just below the clouds. Then a small, impossibly quaint town with a few farmhouses scattered on the outskirts. And then landing. Turns out I was actually landing in Keflavik, a small town, not Reykjavik, as I had assumed. It ranks in my top most beautiful places to fly into (ok, in no particular order, Seattle, Kolkata, Los Mochis). In my one hour in Iceland, and ten hours on their planes, I quickly decided that the entire country is both extremely proud and insecure. There is so much promotion of not only their attractions, but of their culture. The head rests on the plane have little blurbs about interesting words in the Icelandic language, and common mistakes you should avoid…as if so many people on the plane were grasping for a quick last minute lesson so they could really get by. There was the constant reminder that the airport was rated (by whom, I don’t know) the best airport in Europe. Overbearing advertisements on the walls of the airport reminding how hardcore their local winter/extreme athletes are.
Despite only one hour of sleep on the plane, plus three hours of sleep the night before leaving and a 9-hour jet lag, I had an extreme bounce in my step as I arrived in Paris, grabbing my bag, and meeting Lise (wearing her trademark crocodile hat, holding a sign that read “Seattle”).
My first sight of Paris, where Lise’s dad dropped us off, was a relief. We were on the outskirts of the city. Dirty, Construction, Bustling, Beggar, Diversity, Traditionally Dressed African and Arab Muslims. Was I back in Tukwila? Paris is Paris, but Paris is also a metropolis, thus Paris is still Paris.
As Lise figured out our route for the subway, I just took it in around me, giving the occasional yell and slow motion dance. On the other side, we arrived in Paris as one envisions Paris. Oh, there it is, I thought. We wandered past the Notre Dame and decided, hey, it’s free, and we have time let’s walk through. And yeah, it was cool. This was starting out exactly how I wanted it to be. No rushing around with a checklist making sure you hit all the historic buildings and museums. I just wanted to enjoy myself, have a good time with Lise and her friends, and if I saw some cool stuff along the way, superbonus.
I waited for Lise while she was in her class, laying in the courtyard of her school, just watching all the students. They all were so serious-looking, though friendly, well-dressed and attractive. I watched everyone giving each other the “bise” or kisses on the cheek upon greeting. I never knew this was an actual French thing, and not just one of those clichés we think of as being French.
After Lise’s class, in the evening, we went to a canal with some cheese, a baguette, rillettes, cornichons and beer, and had a nice, relaxing picnic. I was elated. I knew right then that this simple meal in a beautiful place would be a more memorable experience than any of the sights I might take in over the next couple weeks. And while I have previously shunned Europe as a place to travel in (mostly due to costs, and the abundance of “sight-seeing”) this felt very similar to many other memorable travel experiences. It was simply letting someone show you a good meal or experience in their home, just as they would enjoy it. In that sense it was no different than my first fufu in a dirt courtyard in Ghana, or cow udder tacos in a street side stand in a humid night in Guaymas.
