First stop: Espresso

I’ve gone through Customs at Charles De Gaulle International Airport. A simple glance and they probably saw a smiling and harmless American, tired after the ten hour flight from Newark. This is the first stamp of many I hope to receive in my passport. I don’t know it yet, but I’ll only receive three stamps over three months and eight countries. Some would call it a perk of using the train system. I say “Merci” to the Customs agent, who mutters “mhm” for probably the 130th time today after hearing 78 other Americans say the same thing.

When I enter the airport, I’m a bit overwhelmed by the signs, crowds, and noise. Oh, and the 500 escalators and stairs that hopefully lead to the correct train to get outta here. I may feel overwhelmed, but I do feel prepared knowing the French word for exit is “sortie.” It also helps that the signs are mostly French/English/Spanish (in that order).

So, I followed the signs for “sortie,” weaving my way around other confused tourists and following anyone who spoke French and seemed to be in a hurry. They know where to go. When I wound up in an area for the trains, I waited in line to buy a ticket. At the counter was a black woman who looked about as tired as I was, but I’m sure she was more tired of people like me. I rehearse what I should say over and over.

“J’ai besoin d’une billet pour le train. Le destination est Gennevilliers,” I say, definitely butchering where I’m headed to.

The black woman speaks as if she’s on a four-times speed setting. I stare blankly at her.

“English?” She says.

“Please,” I yield, “Sorry.”

“You’ll take the RER B to Paris center. Then you’ll take the metro to Gennevilliers. RER to Chatelet Les Halles. The 14 to Porte de Clichy and then the 13 to Gabriel Péri. It’ll be 11,80 for the train to Paris.”

I offer the twenty euro bill I was gifted before I left on my trip. The woman prints a ticket, hands it to me, and gives me some directions I don’t quite catch. I feel too embarrassed to ask for her to repeat them. And there’s a dozen other people in line. My phone dings.

Nick, Patrick can meet you at 4pm to show you the apartment- Valerie. I translate the French in my head and double-check it with Google. I pat my shoulder at nailing most of it.

I look up at all the signs and catch the one for RER. Phew! As I follow the signs to the RER train, I grow more excited. I’m in freaking Paris! The RER train fills with people and I set my backpack on top of my duffle bag, both tucked between my legs. For the thirty minutes from the airport to Chatelet Les Halles, few people get off. The majority exit at Gare du Nord, and all but two or three exit with me.

I often hear people complain about metro systems. They get lost easily or it’s difficult to navigate the various numbers or letters. I have Google Maps pulled up on my phone with my destination. I dare not touch anything, as I’m only using WiFi, and without it, I’m screwed. I don’t recall anything the black lady said, but I have my plans laid out. At a card dispenser, I purchase a Navigo pass to allow me to travel between sections of Paris. I hope it’s the right one. I look for 14, which is also nicely colored purple. All signs lead me to the appropriate platform. I arrive just in time, as the train pulls in. A crowd of people leave and I force my way onboard.

If there’s one thing about the Paris metro, the cars get crowded. I’m talking people pushed up against the windows in a cartoonish fashion – arms splayed, face smushed. Oh! And you don’t have long between trains pulling in, people exiting, and the alarm sounding that doors are closing. But that’s all metro systems I’ve experienced.

The walk from the purple 14 to the light blue 13 is simple. And when I exit the 13 at Gabriel Peri, I breathe a little easier. The metro wasn’t difficult, but it’s still stressful. I am distrustful of people and worried something will be stolen. I kept wondering if there would be an electrical problem and I’d be stuck in a sardine can with a large group of smelly people. None of those things happen.

I exit the station at 2pm – pardon me! 14:00. I have two hours to kill before I get into the apartment. My backpack and duffel bag are heavy, filled with clothes, Nalgene bottle, and computer. I march myself in a general direction of the apartment. I pass the Casino Supermarché and take a left. I am at the intersection of Frères Chausson and Révérend Père Christian Gilbert (eventually learning people abbreviate it to RPC Gilbert). The apartment is just a ways down the right, but straight ahead is a cafe.

Of course, my dream has been to enter a French cafe. I walk through the open door. An older, tanned man with white hair greets me with “Bonjour.” He doesn’t recognize me, or he’d have smiled and said “Salut.”

“Bonjour, monsieur. Je voudrais un cafe et un,” I briefly peruse what’s left of the bakery items at 14:00, “et un pain au chocolat s’il vous plait.”

“Oui! A l’intérieur ou à l’extérieur?” He asks quickly.

The words enter my head and leave quickly. I use the one word that comes to mind, “Quoi?” What?

“A l’intérieur ou à l’extérieur?” he repeats.

I smile and nod, gesturing to a nearby table. The man nods, not bothering to say anything else. I start sweating, realizing I am totally unprepared to understand French. Three semesters of college and Duolingo have failed me now.

I set my bags near a fridge full of sodas and drinks. I sit down and look around. The open door lets in the sounds of cars and scooters passing down the road. The racks of bakery items at the counter are bare. Red chairs and tables outside are empty, but I see a sole espresso cup and plate ready for pick up. The man works the espresso machine. He sets a plate with a tiny spoon and a sugar packet. He places the chocolate bread on another plate.

When the espresso is poured, the man brings the items around the counter to my table.

“Merci beaucoup,” I smile.

“De rien, monsieur,” he replies. There’s no smile.

Damn! I forgot to say monsieur! The French love to be polite. Before I eat, a picture must be taken. Then, I bite into the pain au chocolat. Greeted by warm bread and pieces of chocolate, I moan – just a little. The man either doesn’t notice or is used to having other men moan at his food. I assume it’s his food. The espresso is bitter, much more than I expect, but I sip it plain – for the aesthetic (I feel very Instagramable).

It doesn’t take long to consume the chocolate bread and espresso. I realize how hungry I am. Another guy enters and orders some food. I wait until he is settled outside before I stand up and approach the man who served me. I am ready to embarrass myself.

“Voulez-vous l’assiette à table ou sur le comptoir?” I ask.

The man looks at me quizzically. I repeat the question. And he still doesn’t understand. I try dumbing it down into an American speaking broken French, hoping the man isn’t messing with me. I point at the plate, then the table, and I tap the counter. The man starts to comprehend.

“Vous pouvez le laisser à table,” he says. You can leave it at the table.

“Merci! Combien ca coute?” I ask. Thanks. How much is that?

The man enters a few numbers on his calculator and flashes it at me. Less than five euros. Worth it! I hand him the appropriate coins.

“Je suis désolé pour mon français.”

The man cocks his head. I just smile and say goodbye.

As I walk out the door, slinging the strap of my duffel bag around my neck, I look both ways down the street. My phone tells me I still have an hour and a half. I walk towards another restaurant. Time for a beer after that catastrophe! I find myself feeling a tad sad at my inability to understand some basic French. But then I remind myself that the man knew what I ordered. And I definitely knew how to ask for a beer!