One Night in Paris, A Love Story

I had never been to France.  More importantly to the story, I wasn’t scheduled to be in France either.  Actually, I was in Florence for the week as a participant in the Firenze Marathon, my second ever.  Florence was a wonderful experience, in fact I have returned subsequent times but this story isn’t about that magical medieval place.  No, this is about my single night adventure in the City of Lights.

I awoke bright and early to catch the bus to the airport in Florence, my first return to a vehicle , having spent the week traversing the city on foot.  My bags were packed, I was ready to go.  I had my Finisher medal, a few bottles of wine and what clothing I hadn’t thrown away after my 26 mile sprint through the cobbled streets of Florence.  We arrived at the airport; myself, a travel companion and about 8 other Americans who had all come over for the race.  Thirty five minutes through security and we arrived at the Tarmac…only to return to the airport.  Fog.  All would be fine, we were taking a bus to Pisa where another plane awaited us, already fueling up for our departure. 

We arrive in Pisa and rather than drive straight to the plane as we were informed we would, we are dropped off at the front door with no instruction as to where to go.  Half of our group left their bags on the bus, trusting they would be safely ferreted to the plane.  They were not. 

We head into the second airport and are sent back through security where they confiscate all of the items we had previously purchased in the Florence airport past the security checkpoint.   At least I had only a bottled water at something like 5 euro, ah well!  We at last get things sorted and get situated on the Aire Italia plane, ironically staffed entirely by an Irish flight crew, who are all smiles and jokes.  But time is passing and we aren’t moving.  An ever increasingly irritable Italian woman returns every few minutes calling for “Schultz”, a couple who apparently checked in in Florence but did not join us in Pisa.  Two hours passes, we haven’t left.  By now our Italian friend’s frequent visits are accented with fist shakes and cries of “Schultz” in our best worst “Hogan’s Heroes” German accents.  Morale is slipping.  Our crew of Celts breaks out the peanuts and a strain of some familiar pub song but that’s about the best they can do.  At last, two and a half hours past our arrival time in Pisa and more than three hours past our scheduled departure time, we take off.  It is a short flight to Paris, but already they are making announcements about all the connecting flights we’re missing. 

We arrive in Paris and are ushered immediately to the Aire Italia where they have been working diligently to make arrangements for us, connecting flights, hotels, food vouchers.  The patiently harried, kind faced woman behind the counter assures us we are in the best of hands and that we shouldn’t have to worry anymore.  A brusque, unpleasant family from the Midwest led by a sour faced man pushes past me in the line, insisting on being the first to be served as they’ve been the most inconvenienced, and then proceeds to brag about how his insistence on an upgrade assured them two hotel rooms and food vouchers for dinner AND breakfast.   He is unaware that this is the standard offer for us all. 

I make my way to the front of the line, am offered my confirmation for the two star hotel at the airport, my food vouchers and repeated assurances that I don’t have to worry about my bags because they have already gone onto America.  Spot the obvious problem here?

Exhausted, I reach the hotel by shuttle, spend my remaining two euro in the vending machine to buy a tooth brush and some tooth paste and head to my room, though cell seems a more accurate description.  It is old, and small, rather like a closet with a bed, and the lighting blinks like an old gothic horror movie.  Resigned I sit down in the battered chair and open the “Welcome Menu”.  There, emblazoned in the center of the page are the choice offerings for the restaurant; there are two, “Good Appetite” and “Very Hungry.”

Something in me breaks, I can’t do it.  I cry out loud to the G*ds, “I will not spend my only night in Paris at the airport hotel eating Good Appetite or Very Hungry.”  My companion, hearing my cries comes running. 

“What’s wrong?” 

I become very calm.  We assess our money situation which, as it is the end of the voyage, is nil.  That’s alright, didn’t our parents always say credit cards were for emergencies?   We each grab a card and a form of ID.  We find the shuttle to the train and take the train to the city.  I can’t quite make out the map but we find the station closest to the Eiffel Tower and hop aboard.  The train was an adventure in itself, two levels, cars you could walk between.  Nearly an hour later, we disembark and make a beeline for the Tower.  My only experience thus far has been the Eiffel Tower at Kings Dominion and Paris in Las Vegas, and no, I was never one to say, “It’s just like the real thing.  Only better ‘cause I got a steak!”

We pay the fee and head to the top and for the first time, I understand why this beautiful place is so beloved, why it is the City of Lights, of romance, art, culture.  It is very quiet and serene.  There is a fog bank rolling in which engulfs the lower part of the tower, but up here, you can see to infinity.  Heaven might be this beautiful, yet I don’t know if even heaven could make me as happy as I am at this moment.   A few moments pass and the Tower lights up with a million twinkling stars, an addition from the Millenium celebration.  I love it so much, I stay for two more cycles.  But at last it is time to leave.  We have but a few short hours and still so much to see. 

We head out and find a patisserie, nibbling on our nutella filled crepes walking along the Seine.   I find a Bistro and order a bottle of wine and Duck a l’Orange from a Parisian waiter dripping with distain.  The room is filled with music and life and smoke.  A group of older men sitting in the back corner smoking and talking furiously pause for a moment to assess me, then make a joke about an American in Paris.  My waiter returns and serves me some dessert I can’t pronounce, filled with some sort of marinated fruit delight and topped with real whipped cream and I’m sure a bit of spittle.  It is perfect. 

We return to the train station just in time to catch the last train to catch the last shuttle to return to our chambers.  But the next day, we go to the restaurant to order our Continental Good Appetite or Very Hungry and there sits the angry family from the Midwest, bragging about the free upgraded cable they got in their two rooms.  I refrain from responding.  I didn’t have cable.  I had one night in Paris.  One magical night.  The stuff dreams are made of.