Après Moi, le Deluge

So things got off to a rough start despite starting out as smoothly as can be. Think Clinton’s Presidential campaign circa December 2007. Barré was kind enough to let me freeload in his Town Car to the airport, courtesy of Emirates’ business class. Gracias. The airport screen was slow but painless, the flight was on time, movies acceptable, with 9 and a half hours went by faster than junior high. Then I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I love Paris despite its best efforts affronts to airport civility (see last year). I arrived what can be best described as a spaceship, Terminal 2A. It’s the sort of round shaped concrete that may be both architecturally praised and admonished, but more than this it doesn’t make much sense. I was assured by the crew in Houston that I would be able to remain behind security to reach Terminal 2E were my cousin Leon and his friend Halles were in the arrive.

Nope.

After being needlessly corralled, and subject to yet more queues and what seemed like the longest glass walkway in France, I found myself spilling out into the airport dropoff road; I gathered a simple rendez-vous with Leon and Halles would not be possible at this point. So after a circuitous shuttle ride, I arrived at 2A...30 minutes later. I’d all but given up christening our trio at the airport, seeing as I had the address to the apartment we were renting, but ALAS I see my cousin with his signature and paradoxically frenetic saunter coming out of customs. Hugs exchanged and lets find a taxi.

“Need a taxi?”

Normally my travel instinct forbids such potentially troublesome accosts, and this was no exception, but just as I was about to shoo away the francophone African, Leon blurts out:

“Taxi? Yeah. Let’s go.”

Hmm... Why not?...I guess. I tried out some of my French and ask our new friend, who is quickly whisking us to the bowels of the CDG’s ground transport, how much is a trip to the 1st arrondissement where our apartment awaited. In a baritone West African staccato, he paused looked up and responded, “Uh...€60.”

FISHY. But Leon is impatient, and so Halles and I are off to the ATM. A young taxi driver pulls me aside in the hall and intimates in his native French, “You know that’s not a taxi right? That’s a private car. A trip to downtown should not cost more than €40-45. How much is he charging you?”

“Il est un VOLEUR!” and all manner of angular gesticulation followed the aforementioned €60. Subsequently two...then four ironically paramilitary-clad French Police officers began lazily hovering around this man’s gestures like flies to honey.

Was it something a said?

Leon face looks perplexed and concerned as a number of police officers follow me outside to this private car. Our bags were mercilessly packed tightly in the tiny euro-hatchback and I could feel the drivers pensive worry as I tried to bargain down the price to €40.

Nope.

The bags come out with a speed that belies this country’s inefficient nature after I refuse a €50 fare. I’m sure our African friend’s celerity was encouraged by a healthy fear of becoming familiar (or perhaps more familiar) with the French po-pos. In either case, Leon for a moment was speechless as I explained what had just taken place.

Let’s try again.

We then were ushered to the proper taxi stand and hired a bigger cheaper car to take us to the city center. Halles looked peacefully out the window as Leon fidgeted with something or other and I tried to give the address to the driver, also a member of the African diaspora. After a perplexed look, which by now I had unfortunately become accustomed to, he corrected my pronunciation of “quarante-deux.”

Can’t catch a break today.

After a €44 cab ride we arrive. Leon did an excellent job of scouting for an apartment to rent. Café directly below us, boulangerie and patisserie and four markets literally 20 steps away from the door in any direction. I must admit the events of the morning slipped away as new mothers forget the pain of childbirth in the eyes of her new child. In an incredulous and equally loud manner Leon of course, wondered where our apartment contact was, as we had called him from the taxi with our well-predicted time of arrival.

I called again, fumbled through more French and he came around the corner with his apron still on. Apparently he also owned the Lebanese restaurant not a block from the building. Keys came out, instructions given, linens delivered, and cash exchanged.

Nous arrivons.

I had booked a Eurostar train to London for an impromptu visit to my Pakistani-bred, Emirates-born, California-schooled London resident and fellow wanderlust-ailed friend, Dubai. I grabbed my trusty green daybag, which I prepacked in Houston and found myself blissfully navigating the urine-fragranced Metro to Gare du Nord. I jumped out when the train became suitably West African and made my way to the Eurostar terminal. Thus began my London sojourn.