So there is no doubt about it, not everything with the Paris trip has gone 100% smoothly. As that well-known journalist would say,here is the rest of the story:
The Journey from Orly to Paris: While the flight from Berlin to Paris was more or less uneventful (save for forgetting to remove my shoes at the security checkpoint, which terribly upset one Teutonic security guard), there was “a challenge” at the RER ticket machine. I flew into Orly, which compared to CDG was, indeed, a blessing, and I took the automated tram to the RER line for what should have been a 20 minute ride to Gare du Nord. When I left the tram, I noticed that the automated gateways required an RER ticket, so I stepped up to the machine to purchase one. Very quickly, I was able to determine that the cost was 9.85 in Euros, and I was pleased to see that the machine would accept credit card, or paper Euros, or Euro coins. I first attempted to pay with three different credit cards, but after trying all four orientations for each one (12 total), I realized that my cards, blessed only with the magnetic strip, would not work in a machine which expected a smart card, in essence the same contact set as is in a SIM card (the little gold contacts on the front of the card). No problem, I had thought ahead and had over 200 Euros on me. First, I tried to insert coins, but I found that I was about one Euro short of the necessary fare (somewhat akin to an old Father Guido Sarducci SNL skit, for those old enough to remember). No problem, I tried to insert the paper bills, but no slot on the machine was physically capable of accommodating paper money. I noticed, however, that there was what appeared to be a change machine, some beast which would accept my paper money and give me coins in return--except that this device was completely inoperative, even when I repeatedly tried to insert my paper into what was the obvious slot. Finally, when I was about ready to board the train back to Orly in defeat, I noticed that another machine did, indeed, have a paper bill acceptor. Had it not been for that I might have been stuck on “the MTA” (for those of you, older than myself, who recognize the song title).
Hygiene: In the interest of full disclosure, I point out upfront that I am a single heterosexual male who lives alone, so cutting corners on household hygiene is not unheard of. Yes, my body is always clean as are my clothes, but an un-vacuumed rug or plates in the sink are to be expected. With that in mind, it is somewhat disconcerting when I ordered a vodka tonic (my signature drink), only to find a "floatie" of undetermined nature in the glass. I had noticed in Germany, as well as in France, that rather than relying on Hobarts and the like, glass washing in bars consists of a quick dunk in the sink full of (warm) sudsy water, followed by an equally quick dunk in a sink full of "clean" water (water which in theory was clean, but had been compromised after repeated dunks from the first, sudsy sink). I was debating with myself how big an issue to make of this: I did not want to sound like a wimpy American complaining about something that any European would consider silly, and given that French is far from my strong point, I did not even know how to broach the subject with the bartender. With that in mind, and also knowing that the alcohol in the drink would sanitize any floatie, regardless of its origin (which I elect not to guess), I was consoling myself to accept the notion that I should discreetly "fish" the floatie out with my finger and continue with the drink. No problem, except that as I was attempting to quietly move the object from the glass, a beautiful 100 pound Rottweiler who had been quietly lying behind the bar decided to jump up on the kitchen counter and say hello. I am, of course, the consummate dog lover, believing that they not only have souls but that they are more perfect than are we humans, yet somehow the notion that a dog was hopping upon, and slobbering upon, a food bearing surface was a bit much for me. (I started at that point having visions of the origin of the floatie….) Fortunately, though, I was able to remove the floatie, while one of my dining companions casually tossed the dog a french fry, which he caught in mid-air and gobbled down, as he then removed his front paws from the counter. Floatie fished out, dog on the kitchen floor, “alles gut” as they say.
Found the light switch: OK, so the hotel does, indeed, have lights in public places, but alas they are only on for a few minutes after pushing the on-demand button, before they hibernate. Still, I might be able to retire the penlight.
Hacked my blog: This one irritates me: Not only did the hackers manage to infiltrate my email account and spam my friends, colleagues and jilted ex-lovers (you know I don’t really mean that!), but they also managed to hack this very blog, putting an entry in with a URL to what Google flagged as an "attack site."
QWERTY Not: I wish that the world would settle on one $&(#*) keyboard layout. Sure, when you have different languages (e.g., Cyrillic) I can see why the layout would need to be altered, but French keyboards have many of the keys in the “wrong” place, not to mention that you have to select caps to get numbers and the “period.”…..arghhhh. Normally this would not be an issue as I would use my own netbook, but given the hack above, I am trying to rely on wired lines, which means Internet cafes. (BTW, the availability of Internet cafes is in and of itself a great pleasure to be found in France, unlike Germany where they no longer exist.)
Escargot: OK, put some pesta on it, and give me a shot of vodka, and I can wash almost anything down…actually, it was not all that bad, if you just imagine it grew on a tree rather slithering through the ground.
Fergie is Married: The latest edition of Cosmo, sitting in the hotel lobby, highlights on its front cover a picture of BEP Fergie with a title: “Her Naughty Honeymoon Surprise.” I can’t quite bring myself to read it, lest I spend the rest of my life regretting not being on the receiving end, but I can say that for all those other articles (“HIS #1 SEX WISH” and the like), Cosmo could not be more wrong. Also, why would you want to get rid of “Muffin Top?” Playboy visualizes the average woman sitting on a piano, sipping wine in a corset while fingering herself, and Cosmo does likewise to the male image. Geeze folks, get a life and find out what a real person is like.
Deutsch ou Russki? I often am able to pass myself off in a foreign land as either a German or a Russian (though there are places such as Berlin where I have to default to Aussie as they will see right through either of the former), and I am finding that ability convenient in France Granted, the anti-American sentiment is not so great as it was during the start of the Gulf War, but somehow Europeans seem more tolerant of fellow Europeans who do not speak the local native language than they are of Americans who do not speak the language. Don’t get me wrong, I kick myself for not having continued to work on foreign language skills, yet there is some truth to the idea that English, though a de facto universal language, is still despised by many. Much better to be a German-speaker in France than an American-speaker in France: “Danke” is cool, “thanks” is not. BTW, I seem to be able to do a decent job _reading_ French, as I can usually trace it back to roots and figure out the meaning, but the spoken word skips by me every time, even if it is just listening to a subway platform announcement.
Note to self: When paying by credit card in a restaurant, tell the waiter/waitress the tip upfront, before they run the card through, rather than afterwards….Bill is “neun,” so say “zwolf” and they will write it that way. It cannot be changed after the fact.
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