Comme c'est bizarre . . . quelle coincidence!

12 juin 2010 samedi

Whodathunk that Eugène Ionesco and his absurdist drama would have absolutely anything useful and/or coherent to say about my experiences thus far in Paris . . . but honestly, the only thing I can possibly think to say about my first full day in the City of Lights comes straight out of “La Cantatrice Chauve”—an absurdist play about, well, nothing.

In my last blog entry, I mentioned that strange incidents have a tendency to follow me around as though I trail them on a string. Although I’m convinced that this string is by no means one of my own construction. It has simply sprouted and keeps entrapping me in strange situations.

After successfully finding (or rather, being found by) Alex and Rachel Ferchak in front of Sacre-Coeur, wandering through Montmartre, seeing (quite by accident) Monet’s “Water Lilies” at the Orangerie, strolling through the Jardin des Tuilleries, and having a nice sit and café noisette at a café near the Louvre, I had to leave my American friends to meet up with my parents for dinner. This is where insanity begins.

Apparently, metro tickets don’t work doubly as RER tickets to the banlieux (RER tickets work as metro tickets). Once I got to La Défense, I was supposed to transfer from the metro to the RER line. To do this, I had to have a ticket, which most unfortunately, had been eaten by the last machine I put it in. I grumbled at having to buy another ticket simply to transfer lines, but there were certainly worse things that could have happened. Worse things did happen. The machine in the train station only took coins and European credit cards, neither of which I had. I asked some kindly gendarmes (if gendarmes can be considered kindly) what to do. They directed me to an exit, but again, I was unable to leave without a ticket (it’s a silly quirk in the Paris metro system). I will not go into the gory details, but basically, I spent nearly 45 minutes frantically running around La Défense metro station, unable to leave, unable to enter, and unable to find a train that was going in the direction I was going. It was quite a small catastrophe.

In short, eventually I figured it out. It was a long, painful process. I ended up being about an hour and a half late for my scheduled meeting with my parents. Needless to say, they were distraught. In their despairing state, they had befriended a French man in a bar named Christophe, who promised them a home cooked meal once they found their darling daughter (ie: me).

Well, upon my arrival, Christophe wad delighted to hold up his end of the deal. He walked us to his girlfriend’s house, made chicken and stir fried mushrooms and other vegetables, and drowned us with wine and calvados (apple liqueur). He spoke about 12 words of English, and my parents speak approximately 12 words of French (combined), so it was up to his girlfriend Angélique (who speaks lovely English) and me to translate. Christophe is a handyworker (il a les mains d’or) (he’s currently a plumber, but he’s worked in carpentry, roofs, a butcher shop, and a deli, and he grows plants like children and loves to cook. His girlfriend was an opera singer and now teaches singing to local adults and sings in an operatic choir in Paris. We ended up staying until 11:30 or midnight, and they invited us back for dinner Sunday night and Angélique offered me a job as an au pair next year. How . . . bizarre.

In the morning I woke up early to go pick up Katie at the airport, and after a transportation marathon that lasted 2 hours, I found her (also somewhat distraught, because I was a bit late due to the unexpectedly long trip). We took a taxi back to Maison-Laffite, where we are staying with my parentals. When we finally headed into the city after eating lunch along the Seine, Katie and I headed for the catacombs (recommended highly by Mr. iPhone Designer, mentioned above) while my parents split off to go to the Orangerie. Our need for coffee took presidence over our desire to see the catacombs, so we sat at a café outside the metro station before looking for the catacombs. Upon our arrival at about quarter after four, we found them closed. First fail of the day.

We got back on the metro and headed east towards la Cimetière Père Lachaise, to see Jim Morrison and Chopin and Edith Piaf and other important relics. We successfully found Balzac and Eugène Delacroix, but as we were attempting to find Guillaume Appolinaire, we were ushered out of the cemetery, as it closes at 6:00. Second fail du jour. But it was made up by the fact that we found a kebab, and when I got minutes for my phone at the Orange store, I ended up getting a special offer where I get free texting from 9:00pm–midnight. Hurrah for three hours of unlimited texting a day!

Our path then took us back to the Scottish Pub that we frequented on our first trip to Paris, right down the road from the Mije hostel where we stayed a year ago. The World Cup patrons watching the France/Uruguay game certainly made it a bit more chaotic than the last time we were there, but it was wonderful to have our first demi-fraises of the trip in such a nostalgic location, even if surrounded by sweaty (but attractive nonetheless) soccer fanatics.

The need for fresh air drove us outside and took us on a meandering walk along the Seine, towards Notre Dame. In search of a bathroom, we found a bar nearby. We should have known . . . our drinks ended up being 11 euros apiece. I suppose it was a fair price to pay for a bar along the Seine, in plain view of the golden façade of Notre Dame in the sunset. We were taking in the evening when suddenly, none other than Jonathan Olsson walked by. Yes, my Swede of years passed. My former house-mate. In a city of several million, I found Jonathan, alone. I’m convinced that it was Serendipity asserting her authority in a world ruled by cell phones and schedules. Anyhow, I ran after him (praying that I hadn’t found another Swede that looks exactly like Jonathan). Fortunately, it did in fact turn out to be Jonathan—he lives in an apartment literally above the bar we were. He came and sat down and had a drink with us. After catching up a bit, he walked us to the metro station, and we said goodnight.

After Jonathan left, we decided that we didn’t in fact want to head back to Maison-Laffite quite yet. So we sat at the entrance to the metro and chatted and watched the world go by. Soon, the need for a bathroom again drove us back to the Scottish Pub. We shared a drink, and then headed back to the metro for the night.

Somewhere along the line, I made a mistake—just a small one. We accidentally got on the train in the wrong direction. It was no problem—we got off on the next stop and turned ourselves around. Here’s where serendipity comes in again. While standing on the quai, waiting for the next metro to come in, I look up and see . . . Soufiane, my good friend and correspondent from l’Université d’Avignon last year.. I stopped speaking midsentence, my jaw dropped, and I stood standing in utter disbelief. Soufiane doesn’t even live in Paris—he lives in Lyon. He decided last minute to come to Paris for a conference, and he was with another of his friends that I had met in Avignon, that now lives and works in Paris.

It was Soufiane that broke the silence first—he was in disbelief just as much as I was. Practically the only thing that I could think to say was “ce n’est pas vrai.” I repeated it without end for several minutes. The entire situation was just too strange to be true. We weren’t even supposed to be in that metro station—we were there completely by mistake! So, after a day of completely failed plans, serendipity came in and took over. Comme c’est bizarre! Quelle coincidence!