Well, through all the delirium, baby trauma and beers I didn't get to enjoy (save that for the trip back) I finally safely landed in Paris marking my first time standing on Foreign soil - and on another continent no-less - in 32 years. I am so kick-ass.
Once I got off the plane they herded us into the customs area where I saw just how diverse the plane's populous was. Pretty interesting. I had my passport in hand along with a paper I had filled out on the flight to give to the French government stating that if I got the swine flu while visiting France they would be able to find me and I would be cooperative with their authorities. It was the basics: name, address and the place I would be staying - since I didn't actually know where I would be staying that night I made that part up (our little secret.) When I got to the front of the line I witnessed a man who must've been denied access because he was yelling in French at the authorities and throwing up his arms. Sucks to be him. After that I walked forward and handed my passport to the inspector. He scanned it smiled, I said "merci" and that was that. I walked through the gates and I was home free. Or rather un-home free.
This is the time between what I call the "really cool excited phase" and the "reality smacked you upside the head knocking you into a puddle of your own blood and naiveté" phase. So I guess things are cool for now...
When I got to the main part of the airport I had to get some euros. Keep in mind that I had slept little the last few days and that the flight itself was another day in itself, so this was not the easiest task. I found a really nice guy working the info booth who spoke English and told me where the ATM was and where I could catch a train. Now I could get the money to pay my landlord for the apartment I had found on Craigslist the night before (once a slacker still always a slacker dad) and hopefully get there to give it to her in person. I got the money - the euros looking much cooler looking than dollars I must say - and I was off to get lost almost immediately around the corner. Think old person lost in a mall food court: this was me. On my path to find what the attendant called train "RER B" I found another lost American who said in passing "At least we're not in Tokyo. You can’t read anything in English there.” True. We shared a laugh and I realized how great it was that we both were lost together. Somehow I already missed home a little and felt a bit of comfort, although this quickly faded when I realized that the level of his alertness compared to mine was going to get him to his hotel long before I would. Food courts are destined for a select few.
Then I think it hit me. Not the terror part (saving that for later) the part where all of a sudden I knew that I was very VERY far from home. All I heard was French. Everywhere. Janitors, pilots and stewardesses, passers-by - it filled my ears and started to replace all the comfortable little bits of culture I had slept on my entire existence. This was nuts for a San Diegan like me. I was lost and I knew I had to jump into this experience with both feet so I remembered a phrase to ask for where something is, practiced it a few times in my head, and then approached two Frenchmen airport staff chatting about God knows what. "Excusez-moi Monsieur, Ou sont les RER B Sil vous plait?" Did it work? Did he understand? Apparently so because I was given a smorgasbord of French words and the all-familiar hand-pointing “that way” technique followed by something in question form to which I responded with a Stupid American In Paris look that only I could do. He smiled at my talents (how could he not?) and his friend replied "He said that you speak very good French." Still kick-ass. "Merci. Au revoir."
I followed the pointer-finger down an escalator and around a corner, down another and somehow ending up in front of a massive screen displaying 50 or more trains, their arrivals, departures and what-not. I finally realized that I was supposed to buy a ticket at one of these green kiosk machines, so I got in line and asked the guy in front of me if he "parlez-vous anglais?" He was a Frenchmen and lucky for me also a DC native, so yes he did speak English. His name was Louie and he helped me buy a ticket using my debit card. Good thing because the menu was all in French. Funny thing about my other card - a credit card, a Visa - it didn't have a microchip inside it. In order to work in Paris (and most parts of Europe from what I learned) cards need to have what's called a Euro chip, so my Visa card was pretty much worthless throughout my stay. So I guess Visa really isn't "everywhere you want to be.” There's also a fun story about my debit card but that one's for the trip back. Louie was on the same train as I was and he sat across the aisle so we ended up talking a little bit. Cool guy. I might have to make it out to the east coast just to experience the energy in full someday. Definitely will.
When the train took off and left the airport the beauty of France became apparent. It was all you could ever imagine: lush green fields, flowers, blue skies and really REALLY cool old buildings. As all of this was beginning to sink in: that I was now in FRANCE - a foreign sovereign nation – alone and at the beginning of something immense holding a feeling of weightlessness like the point between the height of the toss and the free-fall to follow, just then at that very moment a guy with an accordion started playing and singing inside the train car. I was smiling from ear to ear.
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