Tuesday, March 18, 2008


The Air France jet touches down on the runway at Charles de Gaulle. It is noon. Cold grey clouds hang ominously overhead. The plane creeps slowly to its parking spot, then we wait. And wait. The father and two girls in the seats behind me are excited about their first trip to Paris, and he is giving them utterly clueless information about what they'll do next.

"First we have to take a half-hour bus ride to the terminal," I crack snidely.

He looks startled. "Half an hour?"

"No," I reassure him. "It isn't really half an hour, it just seems like it." Already I'm muttering to myself, weary from travel, wishing that the incoming flights could use normal gangplanks. We stand in the stuffy aisles and wait 15 minutes to deplane. "Why did I come back to Paris so soon?" I'm grumbling. "Just more stuff to deal with, more quirky inefficiencies." These stupid buses. The flight itself had been pleasant, the crew friendly and apologetic for delays.

Then I step onto French soil, and the gods want to welcome me back. There is zero line at passport control; I breeze through. My suitcase arrives pronto on the conveyor belt; it's weighed down with half a dozen books, and a French guy offers to help me load it on my smartcarte. I dig in my heels and try try try to wallow in my tired grumpiness: to no avail. There is no one in front of me at the taxi stand (the luxury of a taxi being de rigueur this trip, with the excess weight of my luggage).

Chipper and smiling, the taxi driver lugs my suitcase to the coffre of his car, and he laughs when I comment about having shopped too much in the US. I slump back in the seat, not wanting to cope. "You missed a beautiful morning, madame," he offers. "Such sunlight! It was really springtime in Paris earlier today."

I smile wanly and nod off a bit as we zoom down the A1. The familiar return-trip sights pop up along the way. Novotel, Sofitel, IKEA, L'Oreal, other corporate headquarters. Then entire suburban walls covered in graffiti. I perk up somewhat as I spot my touchstone "I'm-in-France-now" building in the midst of the sleek modern corporate headquarters: an ancient three-storey tile-roofed edifice, with gables and shutters. Paris is near.

The traffic moves seamlessly from the A1 to the boulevard periphérique. It dawns on me that I haven't spoken or heard a word of French in two weeks. I hear my voice speaking in French to the driver as if in a dream. Shortly we exit the highway and cross to the place de Wagram. A rush of Haussmannian architecture. Paris!

An involuntary smile begins creeping across my face. We glide past lunchtime diners in cafés, and instantly, I crave a real meal, a plat du jour. The dome of St. Augustin has never looked so crimson and majestic. On boulevard Malesherbes students on lunch break are grouped outside the entrance to the lycée, smoking and joking. Paris!

I'm wide awake now, alert to each passing detail. Some trees have leafed out, others soon to follow. The guards at place Beauvau are directing traffic away from the Elysée. The familiar expanse of vine-clad wall on the avenue de Marigny. Then the sight of the Grand Palais makes my heart jump. Paris!

By the time we cross the Pont Alexandre III, and I see the Invalides gleaming ahead, a broad grin has plastered itself on my face. I am Dorothy who has tapped her ruby slippers and awakes to recognize Auntie Em, Hunk, and Zeke and the others surrounding her. "It's you! And you. And YOU!"



Going Like Sixty said...

ohhhhhh. You never called to see if we wanted to return with you.

smilnsigh said...

I hope your trip was fruitful. And happy that you are back, where you feel happy.


Anonymous said...

I was recently in Paris with my family, at the end of our older daughter's semester in Rome. At the airport, the taxi driver took one look at us with all of our baggage, and figured we were headed for Disney. I found this out later, after I chatted with him in French, which had followed a conversation he had with his dispatcher that went along the lines of "There are four of them with a lot of baggage. Yes, I'm going to charge them extra!" After we chatted, and he told me he thought we were certainly headed for Disney, I replied, "Pas du tout! I brought my children here to see real castles!" (en francais). He never charged us extra.

blueVicar said...

Bienvenue, cherie!

Meilleurs voeux!!

smilnsigh said...

There was no waiting, because France is not a tourist destination for Americans now, with the dollar issue. I thought this, even before reading this.


anna said...

And now you're back in Paris perhaps you could focus on finding out for us about Claire Chazal's beauty secrets :-)

Polly-Vous Francais said...

GLS - I was only kinda in yer neck o' the woods; otherwise I would've nabbed you and the missus to come for a visit.

Mari-Nanci, It is good to be back. Paris may not be the cheapest tourist destination, but the plane from Atlanta was packed solid -- they had to turn people away. I still see lots of Americans here, despite the awful euro-dollar rate. Paris is so worth it! Thanks for the link to Bonjour Paris, one of my favorite reads.

Jan-Dan, I have a not-so-secret love affair with all Paris cab drivers. I've only had one unfriendly one in 2 years-- and that was because it was his last run of the night and I only had a 50€ note for a 6€ ride.

Anna, I'll work on those beauty secrets, truly, but perhaps not Claire Chazal's. Another beautiful Parisienne, a friend of mine. A bona fide project in the works!

BV, Will you be returning to la belle France any time soon?

Now I must take my jet-lagged brain to bed for a wee nap.

anna said...


Unknown said...

Yes, Polly, you have captured the feeling.

Only I think our planes always land in Normandy and taxis the rest of the way to Paris.

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