Across the pond

We are in Paris. FINALLY.

After a hurried and late previous evening of packing, all of our individual odds and ends finally came together, into grotequely large, back-to-front daypack & hiking backpack combinations. I couldn't shave mine down any more than this.

We drove to Minnesota, stopped in Taylor for our last taste of fried cheese and unhealthy portion sizes, then uncomfortably finished the drive to the Mall of America.

See that fried cheese? It goes with your fried green beans.

3 ride lines later, it was time to get the airport.

Aaron flew through the last of his thank-you notes (our caveat for getting on the plane), we hugged Mom and Will, then flew through security to go get snacks at the gate... and found that H6 was a sea of orange shirts. They belonged to multiple high school soccer teams, boys and girls, with an accompanying horde of chaperones all of them bound for the "Gothia Cup" in Göteborg, Sweden.

I brought snacks and attched them to myself. Because I wasn't wearing enough things.

We eventually boarded. Andie and Aaron had been seated at the back, though somehow I ended up in 12D, next to a friendly American couple intent on telling me all the "musts" of Paris, and a gentleman on the other side of the aisle with an arsenal of pickpocket horror stories. Everyone shared.

The safety video was subtitled in Icelandic, distractingly enough, and you had to wait for the second time any announcement was repeated for the English version-- they said everything three times, though what the third language was, I have NO idea.

Icelandair is mostly focused on your flight, but whatever time and space they happen to have free in your channel selection, reading material, or screensaver is entirely devoted to tourism. (And they've adopted the "humblebrag", too: "The most amazing this about Iceland isn't the beautiful unspoiled wilderness or the majestic waterfalls... It's the fact that the prime minister is listed in the phone book.") Whale watching, snorkeling, Blue Lagoon swimming, glacier climbing, etc., etc., etc. SO MANY things to do in Iceland, each with a whole in-flight magazine article dedicated to how wonderful some unsuspecting traveler found each of them to be. You start to feel hit over the head with it. (The other half of the glowing in-flight magazine is a SkyMall imitation that mostly sells overpriced American cosmetics.)

I'd never been on an overnight flight, much less one in cramped seating with little to no leg room (my own fault, for overpacking my carry-on).

I don't like them.

We were provided with wispy little pillows (each with an Icelandic lullabye and translation printed on it) and fairly thick blankets, so I must have slept at some point. But I mostly remember the not sleeping, where the stupid northern sun came up too early and I had to fight back fits of overexhausted, inner rage at the wife of the couple next to me every time she bumped me with her elbow.

We FINALLY landed in hazy ground fog and they wheeled over the tarmac stairs (like in the movies!). I was excited to get off the plane until the wife turned to hunt for her jacket, while mentioning that it might be chilly.

And oh, was it ever. Standing on the stairs, there was no time for my cleverly rehearsed "I love the smell of Iceland in the morning"-- the outside temperature was 55* and the drizzling rain came at your sideways from the wind. I saved my breath for a jog inside and waited at the window in a jacket for Andie and Aaron's cold-shocked faces. Aaron swears he was laughing; there had been a single snarky ad in the magazine: "Iceland doesn't have summer, just winter with less snow." True words.

See Andie and Aaron at the top, shivering behind the slow walkers?

We were scheduled to have a 1 hr. 15 min. layover in Reykjavik... which somehow didn't happen. Instead, we were due to board the next flight not 10 minutes after walking into the airport, which was just long enough to run to a restroom, not eat breakfast, and shuffle sheepishly through customs. I played my stupid-American-tourist card early: the customs officer asked how long I would be staying in Europe, to which I answered, "About a month touring, and then I go to Spain."
Deadpan agent: "Spain is in Europe, yes?"
Me: "...yes. That it is. Make that two and a half months, sir."

We ran to the gate, quickly exclaimed over the modernist art gallery feel of the airport itself, and grudgingly handed over our tickets for another 3 hours of no leg room. 

See? Modernist gallery-turned-airport.

I've never gone stir crazy on a flight, but I was very tempted to when my headphones stopped working, I couldn't sleep, and I got stuck reading Rick Steves' guide to Italy and trying to crack my locker dial lock combination out of boredom.

Charles de Gaulle airport is very generic-airport-looking except that the moving sidewalks are not flat. You go up and down at angles--more like quickly moving ramps that made you wonder about wheelchair accessibility--in large, subway station tubes. (CDG also smells ever-so-slightly like a dirty diaper.) 

Like the moving staircases at Hogwarts!... but not moving.

We found our luggage carousel at the same time as discovering that Andie had take medication on an empty stomach and was very queasy. Aaron grabbed all our luggage while I ran back and forth between him and Andie in the bathroom. When she seemed to have recovered, we loaded up all of our bags-- no small feat. It involves a strenuous, don't-tip-me-over, wiggle dance to get into the hiking backpack, then a groaning, ohh-more-weight, stretch for the daypack positioning. Add to this a sense of complete spatial unawareness, and you get an interesting way to walk.

We swore we'd eat at the hostel if we could just GET THERE already, so we found the train station and bought tickets from the window after exhausting our unsuccessful credit card options at the kiosk. My directions were pretty clear about train and metro transfers, but CDG is on the edge of town, so it still took us two hours of sore shoulders and low blood sugar to find it. 

Aloha!... Paris. 

There's one slippery wooden spiral staircase in the middle of the whole hostel, which everyone has to shuffle up and down for food, showers on other floors, or just general travel. Very narrow.

The decor is a little interesting, all magenta, orange, and lime green. Mod wannabe.

Our room has 5 beds, 5 people, and half a ceiling.

There are no fitted sheets here, just your best efforts to swaddle your bed and not tear it off while you sleep.

We checked in with no problems and were each handed two flat sheets and a pillowcase (mine is a sham that doesn't fit), then directed up a narrow spiral staircase to the third floor (which is technically the fourth). One cardio workout later, we found our room... which has five beds (now all full) and a sloping ceiling that we have all whacked our heads on.

And then we went out. 

Look-- CHEESE!

All the buildings seem to look like this.

Andie led us out through winding streets toward the Eiffel Tower, stopping at a small bakery to get herself a roll and me a pear tartlet. (Aaron declined the pastry selection.) We kept going into busier parts of town which led up to the Eiffel Tower and the Mongol horde of tourists beneath it. 

Andie and Aaron at the Eiffel Tower!

This is the line for the elevator. The obscenely long line.

There's currently some areas in front on the promenade and underneath that are blocked off, some crews were constructing a large stage for Bastille Day celebrations and fireworks. But I got my perfunctory photos and we wandered farther into the attched park for a place to sit down. Andie went for a far-off bench. We sat, consulted a map, and tried to come up with one last thing that we could manage that day, and settled on Luxembourg Garden-- as long as it was AFTER DINNER. (Aaron had no vote, after promptly falling asleep where he sat.)

Andie mapping.

Aaron napping.

The green space in front of the Eiffel Tower.

We wearily walked up toward Luxembourg Garden and around and around the side streets to find one of Rick Steve's recommended restaurants: reasonably-priced yet still authentically French. We felt it was our duty in Paris to try these places, to make each meal count; but the heat and low blood sugar led our unsettled stomachs to compromise on the most innocuous and recognizeable menu items we could translate. We simply got a bowl of lentil soup, a smoked salmon and salad plate, and sausages with onions. (Typing this, I am still somewhat ashamed by our lack of gastronomic adventure.) But no one wants to get sick 45 minutes and 3 metro lines away from your (mostly) private bathroom, so we ate slowly, finished off the water, and felt better enough after an hour to shrug off our waiter's irritation at not turning over the table for three menu items. The food was delicious, as simple as it was; I have never had better salmon in my life. 7 PM seemed pathetically early to be turning in already (though Aaron had nodded off once already at the table) and it was still remarkably light out, so we tried for Luxembourg Gardens.

These gardens are large and lovely, as much manicured gravel and marble statuary as flower beds, with perfectly groomed floral displays in the patches between equally-perfectly-groomed rows of towering trees. 

This sums up the trip attitudes so far.

In the center is a fountain pool surrounded by an outer level of statues, all women. Some are saints, some are queen regents, others duchesses and lesser ranks; but all French nobility or heroes.

We poked around, sat by the fountain, agreed on no plans for the next two days, navigated the spiderweb of metro lines back to the hostel, showered, and collapsed in our beds by 10 PM.