Washington, D.C. continues to exist. I am sure you all will be happy to hear this. Today I went to Vienna -- the Vienna that is connected via the orange metro line in Virginia, that is. I think I prefer the Wien of Austria, however. I interviewed an Indian woman about her dialect Telugu and phonetically transcribed some words she gave me and asked intelligent, pertinent questions about agglutination. What else have I done this weekend? Yesterday Shelly, Jim and I drank champagne and played Super Nintendo games. Well -- I watched and played some Tetris. Exciting. But anyway, as I sit here going over cover letters, writing a paper abstract and reading about rats dying in Camus' La Peste, I thought it would be about time to talk about my trip to Paris. I apologize in advance for the ridiculous length of this post.
As I'm sure both Shelly and Eleanor know, the latter abandoned me by deciding not to go to Paris for a weekend as originally planned. It's okay -- I've made my peace. Sob. Thus, with a 70-euro train ticket I refused to let go to waste, I set off to Paris alone. I left on Friday, and almost missed my train because I am stupid. I won't bore you with the details, but it does involve the longest train I've ever seen. Someone was sitting in my seat, so I told her to leave. Politely. It was ridiculously crowded because the SNCF is run by the devil -- didn't know that, did you? People had to stand in the aisles if they weren't lucky enough to get a seat. At one point the train came to a halt in the middle of a fog-shrouded, empty countryside, where the announcer told us that they didn't know when we would be continuing onwards. I wrote my linguistics paper during this time, about a wonderful advertising slogan. I can send it to you if you want to read some fascinating observations of mine. Thirty minutes later, we finally continued.
I arrived in Paris a little before six o'clock, or maybe it was five -- I can't remember, as this was over two months ago now. Anyway, I did not have a hostel, and there is one thing that I can definitely recommend to anyone traveling, ever: DO NOT NEGLECT TO BOOK A HOSTEL IF YOU ARE TRAVELING ALONE IN A CITY WHERE YOU KNOW NO ONE. I will emphasize further: ESPECIALLY NOT PARIS, WHERE HOSTELS ARE TERRIBLE. If you have friends with you, as was my case in Switzerland, it's fine -- you can always take turns as a sentry if you have to sleep in a park. If you know someone in the city, even remotely, it's fine -- you can crash on their floor because seriously, who's going to leave you to rot outside in a city alone? In my case, just about everyone I had contacted before was gone for the weekend. Or I suppose if you're a man, it's fine -- because the world sucks and traveling alone is fine for you.
Anyway, I went to a hostel that had 13-euro beds, hoping for a room, but they were full for the night. The woman very kindly recommended another hostel. I got lost, asked for directions from a very helpful shopkeeper, and after a few sketchy streets and a race against the dwindling sun, arrived at the second hostel. A bed was available and, once I had payed for the mandatory sheets, it was a little over 20 euro for the night. Frack. I went upstairs to the room, planning to grab dinner but not do much else since I didn't want to wander the city alone at night. In my room was the weirdest girl ever; at first, my guard was lowered because I thought we could make conversation and she could give me some tips about things to do. After an hour, however, I wanted to switch rooms because I was scared to sleep in the same building as she. (As an aside, I really need to use the bathroom, but I have to wait for who knows how much longer until a rover comes to relieve me).
Why was this French girl so crazy, you ask? Well, first of all, she told me all about her life troubles -- she dropped out of school, studying rocks or something like that. She's been trying to get work in a jewelery store but since she's, y'know, crazy she's had some difficulty keeping a job, though she chalks it up to mean bosses. So she goes from hostel to hostel, a nomad lifestyle, looking for employment. That's right -- she lives in hostels. The bathroom of our room had a robe, her coats, and an entire suitcase worth of toiletries. I will repeat this: SHE LIVES IN HOSTELS. Once she found out I was American, she then switched to really terrible English, "for practice." I was too polite to tell her I didn't understand anything that she said to me; I simply spoke to her in French in the hope that she would pick up the hint and reply in French. She never did. (Once, the next night when I returned, and started my homework, she turned to me and said, "Tell me what I need to start my life in America." She then asked me whether she could find work in California. Yeah, good luck with that.)
Continuing onwards, on Saturday I started the day by taking a walking tour in my guidebook that took me past, among other things, the Pont Neuf, the Ile de la Cité (Notre Dame, etcetera), and awesome little streets on the Left Bank. I learned all sorts of clever facts, browsed many open-air markets, and gazed longingly at antique bookstore windows. Then, in the early afternoon, I met up with a French girl, Lola, whom I contacted through strange connections (okay, so don't laugh because this saved me from a very lonely weekend -- she's the friend of this girl on Livejournal I've known for a while. Honestly, she could have been a crazy murderer, but I'm still here and now we're Facebook friends, hurrah. Alright, you can laugh now). We met at les Buttes Chaumont pour se balader un peu -- which, by the way, is an utterly gorgeous park completely unlike the typical (and boring, in my opinion) geometrical gardens of Luxembourg or Versailles. The view of Paris from atop one of its high hills was incredible.
After that, I had another rendez-vous with someone from Atlanta I knew was studying in Paris. I'd only met him once before, however, so it was semi-awkward and I ended up having to pay 5 euro for a café. I'm still bitter about that. He did direct me to the best viewing platform for the Tour Eiffel, however, so I went there to see the sparkling lights of the engineering marvel. (By the way, the other day I saw a chocolate contest on the Food Network where contestants had to make architectural marvels out of chocolate. The Eiffel Tower was, of course, included, but I must say that it looked a little rickety.)Sunday, however, was a dramatic change in my otherwise pleasant weekend in the City of Light -- to be more direct, it was miserable. I had to leave the hostel by ten in the morning, which meant that I had to carry my backpack loaded with books and clothes all day. Furthermore, the weather was a drizzly, rainy mess. I walked to the Musée d'Orsay, which had free admission, and -- taking frequent breaks to prevent a back break -- I admired impressionists. And then when I was walking across the bridge from the museum to go look at the holiday windows at les Galléries Lafayette (completely awesome), the crazy Parisian wind BROKE MY UMBRELLA. This was a draining experience for me, emotionally. My umbrella was kind of my only ally against the elements, only to be destroyed. But anyway, I then took random stops alone throughout the city, rather enjoying my time in the cranky old métro because it kept me out of the rain, and sat in a café to do homework for a while. And then as I was wondering around looking at boutiques and generally feeling sorry for my sodden state, I was talked into buying a 105-euro dress. Yes, one-hundred-and-five euro. For a dress I will probably never wear. Aiya. I still maintain that I was not in my right mind.
By five o'clock, I was freezing, and wet (as were all my books), and my weekend consumption of paninis was starting to wear on me. I decided to go to the train station and do homework until my train left (which, by the way, wasn't until nine thirty, and it cost nearly as much as my original ticket did to switch to an earlier time). So I then sat in the Gare de Lyon, with pigeons for company, switching seats every thirty minutes or so to ease my aching back and still-soggy feet. I sat on the floor for a while until the pure filth of it disgusted me too much. I also consumed about five one-euro machine-dispenser cafés -- if nothing else, the French are simply masters of machine coffee -- and shook off a strange man who, when he found out that I wasn't leaving until after nine, wanted to "talk" with me until then. There wasn't anywhere open for food, and though I contemplated eating a pigeon, I settled on munching on some chips.
I finally arrived back to Strasbourg around midnight, more than happy to be back and warm in my room. But despite the miserable second day (Paris is only as charming as the weather permits. Or as one's hotel accommodations permit.), I had quite a lovely time exploring gay Par-ee.
I still really have to go to the bathroom. That is all.
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