Pretty Much Paris

Today's is short and sweet. I lied. It's not sweet. Short and sweaty. That's more like it!
I got off the plane and found myself in a rainy France. I made my way to the subway station and after buying a few tickets I didn't need, I finally got the one I did. The ticket of doom.

What started out as a chill and nearly empty metro ride that was supposed to take about 15-20 minutes, ended up being a hot, sweaty, sticky, humid, stinky, and pain-inflicting sardine-packed hour-and-a-half long trip. I've done it before. In metros, in buses, even in vans in Mexico where I'd have a couple girls squeezed onto my lap so we could get from A to B. What made this different was the conducting. It didn't happen. Where at most stops you're there for up to 30 sec while people get on and off, our conductor, for whatever reason, kept us at every stop with the door open for up to twenty minutes. People were pissed, but they were respectful about it.
"Why isn't anyone complaining?" I thought. I feel like we as Americans are some of the most impatient people around. In that kind of situation, we wouldn't just stand in bitter silence like these composed French folk. We would start shouting obscenities into the nothing, at least five people would be chewing out the conductor indignantly, and maybe others would even vandalize.
I was able to chat with some Seattle folk on the metro as the three of us were fortunately squished against the wall together. It's incredible how seeing another American can sooth culture misplacement like cold aloe vera on a sunburn.

Obviously I made it off that silly metro (with a slightly injured foot) but I'm alive  and sane and I learned a lesson on maintaining peace in the frustration.

My French sucks, man. It's obviously just because I haven't put in the time or been around it. I think this ignorant feeling is making me all the more want to learn it.

After I was able to buy a ticket (which by the way was miraculous since I didn't reserve a seat in advance like you're supposed to) I decided to meander out around rainy Paris with my suitcase and my backpack.

I walked about a quarter mile in the rain before I headed back and stopped in a pastry/bakery. I browsed the decadent yum-yums (pistachio pies and breads, macaroons, hazelnut cakes), buy I settled on a prosciutto baguette with marsclpon type cheese and arugula, lettuce, tomatoes, and the bread had baked fig in it. It was a pre-made ready to take one, so the only three phrases I had to use were "Bonjour" "Si vous plait" and "Merci beaucoup". That sandwhich though... Augh. So. Good.

I ate my baguette back at the train station by a French young man working on his computer. After I finished my divine sandwich, it was nappy time. The boy looked up from his laptop and offered in French and then English (when I didn't respond appropriately) to watch my stuff as he watched me struggle to prepare for a nap in a way that no one could steal my two pieces of luggage. I told him "Merci" and nap I did. I was half asleep for a solid two hours, when abruptly I jumped up thinking I missed the trains. Typical. I must've appeared as a scatter-brained American, as he had to remind me of my water bottle I left.  "Merci! Bon voyage" which I thought was a thing? But he didn't reply with anything.

At the train station In Paris it appears that prime cardio health in their passengers is a priority. How, you ask?
The train you will be departing on is not reflected on the departure board until 20 min before take off. It takes just that to get to your seat and get your luggage loaded if you're on car #16 on Train 17. People are booking-it across the long platforms with their luggage whipping people behind them. It's mad. Mad, I tell you. Prime heart condition though.

When I got on my train I was seated at a diner style table with a very sweet, well-to-do older couple from Guadalajara, Mexico who brought their daughter on a trip to tour Europe for her 15th birthday. They were really cute and really good at mimicking accents from all over Mexico.

I realized on the train that 20:30 was not the duration of the trip (as it would be on an airplane ticket), but rather the ETA. I had texted Lichita at the Paris station via wifi to tell her I'd be in tomorrow. On the train, seeing the stop schedule board is when I realized my mistake. I had no way of telling her I was arriving in Barcelona tonight until I was already in Barcelona.

Tune in next time for Barcelona evening mishaps, okayhaps, and besthaps.