I'm perched on my new window sill, with a Toulousian breeze fluttering past, looking up at the pale blue sky beyond the brick-red tiled roofs of all my new neighbors. I have Sophie's bird posters up on my walls (though not yet anything else) and my bags mostly unpacked, into piles on my desk and chair while I figure out where everything is going. More musings to come later, as well as perhaps some catch up about my life this summer, but for now, the journey:
I had the window seat from Seattle to Iceland, w two adorable little blonde boys (6&8 or so) next to me. The flight was easy, 7 hours, and the moon out my window was beautiful, starting as a white shadow in the light blue Seattle afternoon flight, and getting brighter and yellow-er the further we flew into the night. Out the left windows, the sunset was one of the more spectacular I've ever seen, the whole sky a deep deep crimson, barely getting dark before the crimson returned with sunrise. I didn't sleep much, which I'm feeling now, but we landed just after midnight Seattle time, so that's not all that surprising. And no, Lindsay, I did not watch no strings attached for a 3rd time in 2 months ;)
So, easy as pie, go through Iceland immigration without my checked bags (that'd be my 25 kg big bag, 20 kg backpack, and 19 kg "carry on" bag that they laughed at and checked through), and 55 min later am on the 3 hr flight to Paris, ready to actually sleep.
But alas, it was not to be. I had the exit row aisle, w an empty middle, and a philosopher in the window seat. Kid you not, actual philosopher, on his way from Montreal to Paris to stay w his French gf's family for a week before they both continue on to India for 6-12 months. We had a fantastic conversation for all three hours, which I was potentially slightly delirious throughout, given the hour, and I'm hoping desperately that I'll remember more of it soon.
PARIS: I arrive, get my bags, say good bye to my new friend after exchanging emails and promising to keep my eye out for his book, to be published soon (a masculine version of eat, pray, love, apparently). I figure out where I'm going, vaguely remember that I'm supposed to be speaking French, and set off for the train-shuttle to take me to my terminal. Damn cdg, however, doesn't allow you to wheel the baggage carts to the tram, so I load up after trying to push the cart through the bars a few times in vain. I put on my winter coat (yes, it's august), put on my 20 kg back pack, pull my "carryon" with my massive "purse" balancing precariously on top in one hand, and my 25 kg BAG in the other. 'sall good. A few slight near timber moments as you know, I try to walk/turn in said backpack, but otherwise it's all good. I'm sweating bullets on the moving sidewalk. Luckily, as I get to the tram platform, with the backpack coming off of its own accord when i put my other bag down, almost taking me with it, I am visited by a beautiful elderly French lady, who takes pity on me. She takes my massive bag on to the train, and off we go. There's sweat dripping down my back now. And just before I fell over my sunglasses came off and got nudged back up by an elbow, along with a few extra inches of hair, so, needless to say, I'm looking pretty hot. Three very warm stops later, my angel is getting off with me at Terminal 2! She ropes in her husband, but as I'm leveraging my shoulder bag (with computer in it, and lunch bag dangling from a handle) up to hand him the "carryon" I hear something snap in the handle. Hand off the bag nevertheless, and off we go, me explaining in broken French how I'm going to Toulouse for une année (un an, my lovely lady corrects me) and them replying in great English to ask more questions. Turns out, they (still don't have their name) have a good friend in Toulouse who works for AirBus who they would be happy to put me in touch with. The creaky handle finally snaps, but we're to the terminal and there are more baggage carts! (new found appreciation for carts) I get their card and bid them adieu, to email them tomorrow to get the email of their friend.
Still wearing the backpack and winter coat, I set off for terminal 2F. Still sweaty sticky gross, but starting to get zen about it. Embrace the heat, the ugly. No one here to impress. I make it to the 2F entrance, but there are more anti cart gates! No! I unload right next to the soldiers w their machine guns out, and try to figure the logistics of 2 hands 3 bags + a backpack. I search for more people I can rope in to helping me. Instead, I spot an elevator, which looks very cart friendly. I start re-loading my cart, w the help of one of the lovely soldiers. UP! Find my Air France baggage line, where I get q very nice man who informs me that my backpack is too long, so must be dropped off at oversize baggage, my BAG is too heavy and must have things taken out, and my "carryon" is clearly not a carryon, wtf was I thinking, it weighs 19 kg and won't fit in an overhead container. I hide my "purse". He goes and talks to his supervisor, and gets the 200 euro 3rd bag charge to check the "carryon" to be 55 euro, because he's lovely and apparently sweat hogs do it for him. Success! 100 euros in baggage later, between the prepaid 2nd bag, and sneaky 2nd 2nd bag and I can go.
I spend my hour at the gate slightly delirious, type up most of that post, and am surrounded by a mass of lime-green-tshirted teenagers, a church group from Indiana. On the plus side, I got "bless you"-ed by a nun, that's gotta count for something.
I remember nothing of the flight from Paris to Toulouse, as soon as we sat down I was asleep. An hour or so later, I woke up as we were coming in to land at Toulouse-Blagnac Airport. Met Olivier de Saint-Exupery, the father of the family I'm staying with, and got all of my bags into his little car. Trying to speak French while tired isn't necessarily the smoothest operation, but we communicated just fine. We arrived at the house, which they built a few years ago, which is beautiful. It's on a little triangle piece of land, with the house along the base and a pointy garden, with children's play set and some lawn space, off the porch to the south. My room is small, with a table that folds up from the wall, an elevated bed with desk underneath, two chairs and a skinny little stool, and a petite kitchenette. I have a big double window that opens to the north, looking onto a little garden space and the neighbors across the street. It has a thick window sill, which I'm fast thinking is going to become my favorite perch.
Sorry for the length, I have lots more to say and think, but for now, gros bisous! À bientôt!
No comments:
Post a Comment