Memorable Travel: Paris, France

My first impressions of Paris were lackluster to say the least. As the bus pulled out of Charles de Gaulle at quarter to seven in the morning, after an overnight flight from Boston, I was disappointed. We passed factories and corporate headquarters, most of whose names I recognized. The landscape could have been the drive into Logan back in Boston.

“Don’t worry,” my classmate Julian reassured us, “This isn’t really France. Just wait.”

Some twenty minutes later, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. The bus pulled off the highway and began winding through real French towns. We oohed and ahed as we passed beautiful houses on tree lined streets, boulangeries and shops, all closed on Sundays.

“I told you so,” Julian smiled as twenty-five high school juniors and seniors pressed their noses up to the bus windows.

We drove through the outskirts of Paris till we came to a winding road up to the fortress-like wall of St. Germain-en-Laye, with Chateau-Neuf at the top. The bus dropped us off at the rotary, where every so often, a car drove through and its passengers gawked at us. We were amazed that we didn’t cause an accident.

My host family was among the last to arrive, greeting me with handshakes and forgoing the awkward air kisses. They told me that they would only speak to me in French, as we drove down winding one-way streets, finally driving up onto the curb and parking, a French practice that I never quite got used to. They pointed out their flat, the top story of a five-story building. We loaded the seven of us and my luggage into a small rickety elevator that opened right into their apartment. It was small, simple, and French, with bookcases everywhere, lining every wall, even in the bathroom.

While the rest of the family fixed lunch, my host mother took me on a walking tour of the neighborhood. Exhausted and jet-lagged, I tried to soak it all in as I trudged after her. The shopping center was closed, and there wasn’t a person or car in sight - it would be different tomorrow, she told me, I would see on the way to school. Our last stop was a boulangerie; I would soon learn that you’ve never had bread until you’ve had fresh French bread. She ordered as I gazed around, practicing my French by reading each and every sign. When she stepped aside to pay, the cashier motioned for me to place my order. I shook my head and stepped to the side. “American,” my host mother explained. The man and the people behind us in line chuckled.

Lunch was an ordeal. They brought out course after course - steak, green beans, cheese, salad, desert, and bread - lots of bread. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that serving me wine while I was jet-lagged and sleep-deprived was probably not the best idea.

In the afternoon, we drove to Versailles, where we toured the gardens and buildings - the palace itself I would visit later in the week. I moved robotically, trekking for what must have been miles around the grounds. The beauty and the novelty of my first trip overseas were nearly lost on me as I longed for sleep.

My French had flowed beautifully, like I’d never heard it before, with the wine, but I learned that in general, the quality of my French was inversely proportional to how tired I was. As the day dragged on, the expanse of my vocabulary was reduced to “oui”, “non”, and “merci beaucoup”. I fell into bed that night, with the Eiffel Tower twinkling outside my window, and promises of Paris in the morning.