Tuesday, January 20, 2009
We stepped off Picidilly line in King’s Cross and enjoyed actual London air for just a moment before stepping into St. Pancras, bound for our Eurostar.
My father graciously lent me his set of luggage so I wouldn’t have to spend yet more money on wedding-related expenses. During my packing apocalypse last night it seemed practically, reasonably large, but now that I’m tumbling on and off the tube with it seems like massive, obnoxious American luggage. None of the Europeans have luggage this big – right at the weight limit even half packed. It even says “American Tourister” on it, in case its fatness was not a direct giveaway of my nationality.
(To be fair, my father warned me that it was a bit bigger than I needed. )
Last night’s panic attack subsided once we were safely installed in PHL and found someone who could explain the difference between the current my laptop would need versus the current that my electric razor requires. Elise keeps zipping off in directions that may or may not be correct, and I have to keep reminding her that I travel in completely the opposite way that I commute – I constantly stop to collect myself and check all of my pockets; I never hurry or jaywalk.
My “I don’t speak enough French” panic attack also subsided slightly once I realized that I’d have just as much trouble understanding fast-talking Londoners, slightly returned when I bumbled saying thank you to the border guard, and was greatly beaten back by understanding the customs signage (even though I was sure I had a word wrong) and reading the entire Obama cover article in Le Monde.
We didn’t dally too long in King’s Cross, but as a nod to our geekdom we have situated ourselves roughly at track nine and three quarters as we await our chariot to France.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
At the end of explaining the flat, Céline turned on our petite television set.
“CNN,” she said, “for you.”
Her English is flawless; we had to tell her how to say “circuit breaker.” Meanwhile, outside in the cab I barely cobbled together a sentence while Elise rang to have us let into the flat. “Is it okay that you wait for a minute? She finds the number now.”
Elise jumped in with her actual accent to save me, and I went poking about at the door to see about getting us let in. Here I was thwarted by laziness in packing – my bag was supposed to have my tiny maglite in it, but I decided at the last minute it wasn’t worth the bother. Well, standing in the pitch black lobby trying to dial up Céline on the intercom by the backlight of my iPod I decided that, clearly, it would have been worth it.
As Céline prepared to step out CNN broke from commercial back to their Obama coverage. She fixed us with a bemused look and indicated the television.
“So funny, that you have come all this way at this time.”
“But, I want to see it from here! I want to hear what you think.”
“Well,” she said with a grin, “it is great for us as well.”
She promised me an interview tomorrow if I did my French homework tonight.
First, dinner.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Google informs me that the titular phrase with “soir,” as I originally phrased it, frequently refers to the question of having sex on the first date.
Funny how they don’t teach you these things in high school.
Here’s gare du nord, where we disembarked.
I took special delight in the fact that Dexter is being advertised as heavily here as it was in the states last fall, but I’m not sure what season they’re on.
I insisted we snap a photo to commemorate the end of our 18 hours of traveling before we went out for dinner.
We turned the wrong way up our street at first and discovered that it terminates in an absolutely breathtaking overview of the entire city, with the Eiffel directly in the center. We were at a loss for words.
(That is, until I remarked that the roving light from the top of the tower is not unlike the eye of Sauron. Because we are huge, married nerds.)
Photo forthcoming; at the time dinner was a higher priority.
Elise made me speak French to our waiter three times. He was extremely patient, and seemed to take delight in the fact that we were struggling not to use English or ask him how to say things.
When we left he said “Thank you, byebye!”
