Paris, Texas
April 22, 2011
Distance Traveled Today: 162
Distance So Far: 7538
Well, that was stupid. All week I’d been thinking the departure time of my bullet train to Paris on Friday night was at 8:35. At 6:20 on Friday evening I was in the office and happened to glance at my ticket. I saw to my horror that 8:35 was the arrival time, not the departure time. The departure time was at 7:15. Oh, dear.
At about 6:20 on Friday I was puttering around at work and I absently pulled out my train ticket and glanced at it. I realized to my horror that for the entire week I had been reading the arrival time in Paris on the ticket. The departure time was 7:15. I nearly had a heart attack. I stumbled out of the office, jogged all the way back to the hotel, begged the front desk to get me a cab, ran upstairs and frantically packed. The cab took forever to arrive – the fact that it was raining didn’t help, I guess. He got me to the train with only five minutes to spare. Grr.
Here’s the thing: The ticket was expensive and completely non-exchangeable. In other words, if I had been five minutes later, I would have had to purchase and entire new ticket.
Ironically, after rushing to meet the train, we had a delay of an hour getting to Paris.
Except that it didn’t. About halfway through the trip, we got held up by a train in front of us that was having problems. So we ended up being an hour late. That may not sound like much, but consider this: The journey was supposed to take only eighty minutes. In other words, the premium we had paid to be on a fast train was utterly wasted. I’ll give them credit for this, though: As we got out, there was an official with apology/partial refund forms at the ready.
Next: Navigate the Metro to my hotel. Turned out to be not as easy as I expected.
Time to make a few complaints regarding our European cousins, at least the ones in Belgium and France:
First, there is no fountain soda in Europe. At least, it’s rarer than a funny bit from Dane Cook. I’ve been spending ridiculous sums on tiny bottles of “Coca Cola Light.” Finally, in Paris, I figured it out. I should have tumbled to this much earlier. Where else to go to be my desperately needed fountain-style Diet Coke? McDonalds, of course.
Okay, good. I imagine it won’t be that impossible to find McDonalds anywhere in Europe, so when I absolutely positively need a fizzy, chemical-laden diet drink, I’ll know where to go.
The next complaint is more substantive. When it comes to public access to services, the otherwise smart Western Europeans could use a little help. Yes, the subway system in Brussels is lovely and efficient. And while the Paris Metro is nothing resembling lovely – the cars have seen better days – it’s still extremely efficient and peppy.
The problem? Buying a goddamned ticket.
In Brussels, you can only use 1) coins or 2) special European credit cards with some kind of magical EU chips in them. My credit cards, which are otherwise honored most other places in town, simply don’t work. That’s okay, I have cash. Well . . . except that, by cash, I mean paper Euros. Surely the sophisticated ticket machine will take paper Euro notes, right? Wrong. It will only take coins or magic Euro credit cards. No problem, surely there’s a change-making machine nearby, right? No. Absolutely not. So let’s review. You’ve got a machine that basically demands that you be a local to use it. Not very friendly to us Americans who, along with our loudmouth, monolingual ways, are also bringing a lot of American dollars your way. How about cutting us a little break?
Naturellement, the Metro in Paris has the exact same limitations.
I ran into a similar problem trying to connect to the internet at the Gare du Nord. I had some extra time before my train, and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what’s happening on Facebook. Surely in Europe there’s free wifi connectivity all over the place, right?
Well, sort of. There are four or five wifi networks available in the station. Several of them are free . . . if you’re French. In other words, they’re free, but you still have to have an account with some mysterious French company. I couldn’t even translate the pages to try to figure out what I needed to do, because it was impossible to go online to get Google translate. Even if I had wanted to get online bad enough to pay for a session, even that proved impossible. You couldn’t simply fire up the railway internet service, pull out your credit card, and pay for an hour. No, you had to purchase it through one of four French internet connection services that you already had to be a member of. In other words, there’s lots of wifi available . . . as long as you’re local.
I realize the Europeans need to feel superior to us, and in some ways I guess they are, but that’s no reason for these types of public services, particularly in cities that survive largely on tourism, to be so opaque and unfriendly.
Speaking of European inferiority, can we talk about the smoking? This, I realize, is not news, but every time I come to Europe I have a foolish optimism that that our EU cousins will finally start to catch up with us in the smoking department. Not so much. Everyone smokes here. Everywhere. People smoke right next to you when you’re waiting in line for things. Nice.
My favorite image in Paris, in fact, were the several Scout Guides (Europe’s version of the Boy and Girl Scouts) who were smoking in uniform this bright Easter morning. I am so sorry I don’t have photographic proof of this, but I was in the achingly slow line for the Notre Dame tower climb, and the scouts were always moving too fast for me to get a good shot. But I saw it, I promise you, more than once.
Anyway, I finally managed to stumble outside of the terminal and beg a restaurant to make me some change, made my way to the subway and to the garish but very friendly Marriott Rive Gauche. Emphasis on the gauche, but hey, I had a beautiful room on the very top floor with a spectacular Montparnasse-anchored view of Paris. Best of all, it was all paid for with Marriott points.
Notable Examples of Me Misreading Important Dates or Times
When I bought tickets to a Broadway show for a visiting friend, and when she and her mother showed up for the Saturday evening performance, they were told that their tickets were for the matinee which had happened earlier in the day.
When I was in charge of purchasing our tickets to see kd lang at the Hollywood Bowl, and on Saturday morning I realized to my horror that the tickets I was holding were for the Friday night performance.
Getting my audition date for the Yale School of Drama off by exactly one month.
