In Paris Under a Bronze Haze
Friday, May 12th, 2006Bonjour. I am in Paris, or well a suburb of Paris at least. A haze hangs over this city. It’s a bronzy haze that blurs the sun and the boundaries between clouds. Paris so far is as I expected Paris to be. The people speak French, they look French, the buildings look French, and many of the cars are Peugeots. I did not expect that haze, however. It reminds me eerily of Bangkok and my environmentalist’s nightmare. New Zealand’s pristine, Pacific-filtered air has spoiled me for life. But at least in Paris, unlike in Bangkok, I’m not alone; I have a friend here.
I just woke up from my first few hours of sleep since EST 8am yesterday. I woke up to see the open window with its black iron banister, perfect for leaning out to watch the street below. Dogs barking and lawnmowers in the distance, birds and children coming home from school on the quiet street outside with its beautifully full and flowering trees–these are beautiful sounds, the breeze a beautiful sensation on the skin, and the trees will continue to be wonderful as long as this Claritin continues pulsing through my veins.
I’m homesick. I’ll admit it. Mostly I miss the routine I’d developed in NYC, and of course a few specific people in my life. But that was all about to change anyway since the semester was over. Mostly I’m just exhausted, and when I’m exhausted my emotions become their own; there is little I can say to change them. I feel unsure, my confidence is wagging at the moment, if that’s the expression.
My Aer Lingus flight to Dublin where I changed planes to Paris was nice and fairly uneventful. On the flight were mostly Irish people. And as Mum suspected it was the first time I was on a plane full of people who “looked like me,” but it was odd. I don’t just look “Irish;” I look like a mix of everything that I am, so I didn’t fit in. In fact, on that plane, I had no idea where I fit. But many of the other people on the flight looked Irish, and sounded Irish, and carried Irish passports. I can’t remember the last time I was on such a homogenous flight, maybe on my way back from Seoul when everyone on the plane and their mother was Korean.
During the flight, I chatted with the man sitting next to me. He came to NYC from Ireland 10 years ago, and now has dual citizenship, something I didn’t know was possible, especially coming that direction. We discussed everything from travel, to the city, to politics. We remarked on the fact that the sun never quite set outside the airplane window. A rainbow haze had followed us below the wingtip from about Nova Scotia until we were just off the Irish coast when we had the luck of watching an orange sun rise over the Emerald Isle. An hour later, I left Dublin.
After I arrived in Paris, I spoke French for the first time since I was 9. Full sentences have been popping up from some hidden place in the recesses of my brain; strings of sounds have been surfacing without meaning. But I can understand people.
“Bonjour, Monseuir,” I said to the nice looking man who collected the carts outside the airport. “Do you speak English?”
“Non.” He shrugged apologetically.
“Eh… ?La gare?”
(In French) “Oh, you want to go to the train station?”
“Si, eh… oui.”
(in French) “You take the bus number 2.”
“Merci.”
And later at the train station, after I had figured out where I needed to go and how to use the ticket machines, I discovered they did not accept my credit card. But the man behind the counter at the end of the long line had a smile on his face when I said, “bonjour” and asked for a ticket to zone 1. And finally, as Kara introduced me to the family who’s shower she shares, I understood… “This is my friend, Andrea. She only speaks English. She’s visiting from New York.” I only speak two languages, but it would seem I understand three.
Now I’m showered, partially rested, and ready to start exploring when Kara gets back from school. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can find a language school where I can get a private French lesson or two if I can afford it, and we’ll see how much I remember from those disgustingly-early morning French classes I took in the fifth grade.
Au revoir.
Drea