I've never considered myself to be big, or even particularly tall for that matter. I think that around six-feet-180-pounds I'm a fairly average human, and I've made peace with that. In college I lived with division one baseball players, who are all typically bigger than I am. One of my roommates stood at an athletic six-foot-six and we considered him a giant.
I digress, but it brings me to the irony of the whole traveling situation. As I stepped onto the plane, greeting our French flight attendants, there was a staircase leading upstairs! Was this Air Force Un? Was President Sarkozy up above with the other voyaging elite?
This airplane/loft apartment was the biggest I had ever flown on, and as I took my aisle seat I realized quickly that this would far and away be the smallest, most cramped area I have ever been contained to for six hours. I suspect one has more leg space in the womb.
For starters, the genius who designed these seats completely discounted any width, as to allow the inherent spread of fatigued legs. Secondly, when the person in front of you chooses to recline, as one naturally does on a long flight, the back of their seat isn't supposed to rest directly in your mouth.
Sure, it had a TV which I enjoyed two episodes of 'Entourage' and the motion picture "I Love You Man," but the amenities ceased thereafter. Next to the 4x4 inch screen on the right was a plastic, pull-down off-square device intended to hold drink cups. This of course worked in theory but when your fidgety neighbor in front is reclined at an angle that rivals most space shuttle launches, the cups would need to be filled sip by sip.
To the left there was an indentation in the plastic with two metallic crossbars. This, I'm guessing was put in place for two things: the complimentary cognac bottles or the world's smallest cell phone.
Below that was a metal circular knob marked: 'Coat Pull'. I still have no clue what this is, and neither do my mom or brother. Following several tests in which no dings sounded or annoyed flight attendants told me to stop, I gave up.
Since traveling six hours across the Atlantic screwed incredibly with my sleep schedule, not helped by the fact that the woman sleeping in front of me was in my lap, I didn't get a minute of shut-eye. The one time I had to visit the bathroom and the other when I retrieved un autre (another) bottle of wine, I literally had to haul myself out of the chair as I imagine most paraplegics do. I'm telling you, post-Vietnam Lieutenant Dan would be uncomfortable sitting here.
"You got no legs, Lt. Dan."
Thankfully, they serve free booze.
I passed the time by watching TV, a movie, eating two meals and writing in a notebook small enough to fit between my stomach and the seat in front of me, the six hours passed and we descended into Paris. I left Boston at 7 p.m. Friday and arrived at 7 a.m. Saturday. I'll let you do the math.
Good Morning, Paris; Bonjour Jet Lag.
--Paris--
I can honestly say that the first 24 hours in France were probably the crankiest I have ever been. There was some sort of snafu with the train into Paris (they, albeit briefly, went on strike) and that coupled with my lack of sleep and the complete lack of air conditioning anywhere put me into a spiraling bitter hatred of anything communication related. I probably spoke around 30 actual words, French and English, the first day. When we finally retired around 11 p.m., there was only one thing in my notebook:
"France smells like the Pittsburgh Penguins locker room"
Day II:
Everything in life is easier after a full night's sleep: breaking up with a significant other, teaching middle schoolers, exploring a foreign country, etc. so I was glad to get a solid eight in, even though I slept on the floor in the tiny flat owned by my new cousin (in-law?) Olivier. As I exponentially increased my chances for scoliosis on the floor, my mother and brother shared the couch's futon mattress. More comfortable than the floor, you ask? Well of course, but being that close to my brother, I risked losing sleep and sanity. Luckily with the nifty airplane headphones they give you, the airline also included earplugs, a blue Zorro mask without eye-holes and a refreshing wipe infused with artificial lemony goodness just big enough to clean two, maybe three fingers.
At some point I do need to write Air France and thank them for the earplugs because they sure came in handy those first two nights. My brother, unlike me, has the ability to fall asleep rather quickly and thanks to a soccer injury back in high school, he now snores like, as Samuel L. Jackson would say, a 'muthafucka'. I struggled the entire two weeks trying to nail down what describes it best. Here are some ideas:
-Darth Vader choking on Starburst
-First ever hand-cranked woodchipper
-An asthmatic badger
-Upon hearing it, one might suggest: "Well I'll try a clothespin, but I'd consider smothering him."
-The Apollo 13 launch
We planned on making it to the Rodin Museum, so after taking the metro to the west side of Paris breakfast was needed as crankiness, jet lag and my brother's incessant need to take pictures of random objects was plotting to sabotage our morning. We dined at a cafe (surprise, surprise) and watched a homeless man continually put on his winter parka to walk across the street into the corner market to add to his bevy of empty Heineken bottles. This repeated itself as he would return two more times, remove his jacket revealing his bare chest and stand with a very French gaze, drinking. This was 10:30 in the morning. Many people have merely dreamed at the idea of eating breakfast in front of a shirtless vagabond drinking his fourth bottle of beer, but I, dear friends, am one of the lucky ones.
I do have to give him credit, because it was damn hot out.
If anything, the Rodin Museum taught me something very important about French culture in the summertime: avoid enclosed spaces at all costs.
Seriously, it's bad. Luckily a multitude of Rodin's statues were outside, so we opted for the freebie sculpture tour. Here are some highlights (Thanks to Colin for the pictures):
Rodin's "The Hangover"
Rodin's "Moonwalk"
Rodin's "The Huddle"
"Dude, Where's My Towel?"And finally...
"Wrestling with Michael"
As much fun as one can have staring at giant naked statues of men, time was getting short and the tour had to end. We rushed off to catch a train out of Paris so I could meet some French cousins for the first time, where I would get my first serious test of conversational French and my brother would resemble more of an American bobblehead doll, repeating the phrase "Oui, Oui. C'est bien" and smiling as most people do who don't understand a foreign language. Following the meet and greet, we saw the Eiffel Tower (it's big), watched people on motor bikes haphazardly zip through 12 or so lanes of traffic around L'Arc de Triomphe and ate at, you guessed it, a cafe.
It was an overwhelming day and we returned to Olivier's apartment thoroughly exhausted. I would study some of the French language handouts and wait with bated breath for the cacophonous respiratory resonance that is my brother sleeping.
Insert earplugs.
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