Getting closer to the present moment...

For all Paris’ beauties, there is one thing I miss about Princeton above all: the wireless network. While it said on the brochure that there was a wireless network at La Vigie (the foyer where I’m staying), it only works about half of the time. This doesn’t seem to bother most of the people working here; I asked the woman at the accueil (welcome desk) if she knew why it wasn’t working, and she said this happens all the time, especially on the weekends. Thus, I am resigned to adding to this blog via Microsoft Word for the moment (I swear by this program; it has saved me many a time).

When I last left you, I believe I was wandering around Paris. It is a wonderful pastime, for there is an incredible amount of things to do and see for absolutely nothing. One of my favorite things is browsing the local patisseries/boulangeries (pastry shops/bakeries) and used bookstores. For anyone coming to Paris, be sure to check out Gilbert Jeune, on the Blvd St. Michel. There are always crates of cheap books out on the street; I picked up a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal, the poetic chef-d’oeuvre (masterpiece) of Charles Baudelaire. Also, it is right in the middle of the Quartier Latin. This is the student quarter, as I might have mentioned earlier. As such, it is the home of cheap food, cheap books, and cheap haircuts (which I have yet to get, much as I desperately need one). For 3 Euro, 1 Euro, and 20 Euro, respectively, one can avail oneself of all three, though it probably wouldn’t be advisable to do all at the same time.

On my third day in Paris, I made the weary trek down to the lobby of the DEFAP on the rez-de-chaussée (ground floor). Europeans, by the way, start assigning numbers to floors one level up from the ground; thus, I lived on what we would call the fourth floor, but French would call the third. I had decided the day before while wringing my hand-washed dress pants into my sink that if I didn’t have word of my suitcase that day, I would go out and buy all the toiletries and other essentials that I needed. I harbored no expectations; my hopes of calling Roissy and receiving positive news were just about nil.

Imagine my joy, therefore, when I called and the automated service said that my bags were out for delivery as of 3 o’clock that afternoon (I only called at 9 o’clock, so I’m not sure how that works out chronologically, but c’est la vie). I bounced up to my room, elated with the expectation that I would have my things that same day. I sent off a quick exultant email to the Ramos’, and headed out to the Tuileries gardens to pass the time. There is no sitting on these lawns, unlike the Jardin de Luxembourg, but the statues and fountains make up for the lack of good ol’ American sod. I came back to the DEFAP around four, expecting to see a suitcase awaiting me in the lobby. Instead, Christiane, the receptionist, told me there was a note for me in my room. I ran upstairs. Instead of seeing my long-waited suitcase, however, there was a message from the Ramos’ saying to give them a call. I did, and they informed me that the airport was planning to drop the suitcase off at their apartment between 7 and 10 that evening; since they were going to be gone for much of that time, I could come over there and wait. This was rather disappointing, since it was a beautiful day and I had hoped to have my exercise clothes in which to go for a run around Paris. Still, it was better than nothing.

The Ramos’ had previously described to me how to get to their apartment. Of course, I had only half-listened at the time, thinking that I would always googlemap it if necessary. Since I was still rationing computer batter life, I decided to venture out anyway; they had told me the metro stop, so I figured I could just ask around if I didn’t find it right away.

Bad idea, Rachel.

I got to Pasteur, the metro stop, and promptly saw that it was necessary to ask someone where the Ramos’ street was. So, I went up to a nice-looking Paris policeman (“Policemen are our friends,” my mother always told me) and asked for the street. He had never heard of it, and neither had his partner. So, I went into a boulangerie and asked there (while, of course, buying a loaf of bread ). None of the three boulangiers had heard of it either. Since I had a Paris calling card, I asked if there was a phone nearby. They all looked at eachother, puzzled. Nope, they hadn’t seen one.

They probably weren’t the best ones to ask, it seems, for right across the intersection from the bakery was a pay phone. I reached Mrs. Ramos, and she met up with me and conducted me to their apartment. It was really cute, but small (as most Parisian apartments are). Mr. Ramos is an artist, so in the back of the apartment was a small atelier (studio) for him to do his paintings and pastels. They had to go to La Fonderie’s regular Friday night meeting that they were trying to start up, so they left me with a TV, the key to their apartment, and directions on how to open the access doors (yes, a dangerous combination). So, I waited for the baggage people to come.

And waited…

And waited…

And waited some more….

They never came.

Around 9:30, they called the apartment. I didn’t answer the phone, but on hearing the beginning of the message, I raced (too late) to pick it up. I then had to call the airport baggage service people, and they said that they would deliver it the next day, one o’clock at the earliest! Completely frustrated, I returned to the DEFAP.

In order to distract myself from my disappointment, the next morning. I decided to go to the marché aux puces (flea market) at the far southern end of central Paris (central Paris is roughly circular, surrounded by huge roads called boulevards peripheriques [accents, of course]). At this point, I had been wandering Paris for several days (still without luggage, still with aching feet), and it was then that I decided I could take no more. My eyes were overwhelmed by the sheer mountain of stuff at the market: paintings, knick-knacks, jewelry, silverware, books, china—typical flea market items at slightly more sophisticated levels (and prices). After browsing for a little bit, I decided it was time to go back to the DEFAP. My pockets were singed from trying to avoid financial extravagance, and my feet will never be the same again.

Ah, the internet is working!!! I’m afraid I’m going to have to post this and get going. I’m going to visit the home of Victor Hugo, one of the last free sites in Paris which I have yet to see.

À bientôt!