This Side of the Lens (A Year in French) One American's perspective of living in France

Shiny orbs are difficult to pass up when you're packing glass.

I flew to Paris first class thanks to an obligatory upgrade, on top of a very generous family pass from my aunt. The flight left a little after 6 pm and the first class amenities started before leaving the ground. Champagne on the tarmac was a nice offer but I decided to stick to water. I was in the first row of the plane which meant I was in a select class of people that had seats capable of reclining completely into a bed. Being in the first row, however, also means that you get to hear every last bit of gossip from the flight crew and when one of the flight attendants spills water it comes rolling down the isle at you during take off. All that aside it was a very enjoyable flight. The woman who sat next to me told me all about leaving her husband and child for her french lover who lives near Paris. She had rented an apartment and was planning to love learning french and learning her french lover; or frenching her learned lover; or learn french lovingly, oh you get the picture, she was sharing a little too much information. So in first class you can watch an endless stream of movies, however, I was unable to see a single film as I actually tried to sleep after dinner. In the morning the flight crew pretends that we have all adjusted to Parisian time by flipping on the lights and serving us breakfast. I know that it was technically 6 am in Paris, but my body was still convinced that it was 12 midnight Eastern standard time and why on earth would I be eating such a large meal, including chocolates? Well we landed on time which meant I had time to find my luggage and then figure out how to catch a train to the west coast of France by 10:27 am.

Even though my suitcase was the last, I repeat, the LAST piece of luggage on the plane, somehow the ground crew was able to un-load and send my suitcase out last. I’m not sure how this is accomplished, but I watched them load my bag on the plane at the last minute, and then almost after giving up and heading over to the luggage counter in Paris, I breathed a sigh of relief as I finally saw my bag emerge on the conveyor after watching everyone else walk away with their own luggage. Now that I had my bags in tow I made my way in the general direction of the exit, where I assumed I would find the information booth and directions to the train. Along the way I came upon what was apparently the customs station. Unlike Mexico where you play the customs lottery, or the U.S. where they stop everyone, in Paris the customs agents stop whomever they choose, based on whatever criteria they go by. When I realized what was going on in front of me, I activated my cloaking aura and made for the exit. I don’t believe I heard any requests to stop, so I went straight out the exit where I joined the general population.

Per my instructions I went straight to the information booth (where I was told english was not a problem and I would get good information.) I asked where to go to catch my train to Nantes, and the nice gentleman told me to take the tram to terminal 1 where I purchase tickets and catch my train. Other than feeling like a sardine, I had no trouble getting to terminal 1 and making my way to what appeared to be a ticket counter. The woman there told me that the booth was closed, and at first she told me to wait 27 minutes. Then, after some pleasantries, she changed her mind and told me that I should catch the same tram I had just taken and to go to the next terminal where the train I wanted would be much easier to catch. Oh well, back down to the sardine packing machine I went and continued on to the next terminal where the real train station was (not just the local trains to Paris proper.) Here I found the ticket line and stood patiently while awaiting my turn. After what seemed like and extraordinarily long wait I approached the counter and said something like “Nantes s’il vous plaît.” Despite being short and somewhat choppy, the gentleman looked up the info and gave me a price. At this point it became clear that he understood a little english and we worked out paying for the ticket together. (Something about the credit card reader not liking the first card.) He hi-lighted the important information on the ticket for me and when I asked what track the train would be arriving on he laughed and said it was a surprise. Then he said that it would be indicated on the board only a few minutes before the train arrived, and to stand in front of the board to await this somewhat crucial information. (OK I added that part.)

The information did finally appear on the board and I went down to the platform to get on the train. I did manage to board the train, get on the right car and tuck my luggage away properly for the trip to Nantes. The trip was a little over two hours and Christine was at the platform to meet me when I arrived. From Nantes we drove the Euro-Focus to Saint Gilles croix-de-vie where I was wiped out and needed to take a nap. We went to Christine’s cousin’s house where she had been staying and I went down for a couple of hours. When I came to it was time for dinner, so we all had a bite to eat and we called it a day. The next day it was back to work as Christine’s mother’s house had to be cleaned and cleared out for the new owners and there was a schedule to keep.