Les Tourists

“Paris is always a good idea.” ~Audrey Hepburn

May 3, 2013

In the middle of the night, two girls came in the room and were looking for a bed. They quickly deduced there weren’t any available and headed back out of the room. With the exception of that, I was in a deep sleep all night long.

I woke up to the chiming of the bells from the school yard across the street. It was 9am, so I had an hour to get ready. There was a lot of noise from the city outside and I was surprised the traffic sounds hadn’t woken me up.

I got dressed in bed, and then climbed down the latter to wrap my ankle. Glancing in the mirror, I saw that the wet hair I’d gone to bed with was now a frizzy nest on top of my head. Since none of us had locks big enough to lock up our stuff, Wildaly offered to let us stow our bags in her crate and lock it with her combination lock. We did and went downstairs for breakfast.

The restaurant served a complimentary breakfast for hostel guests. Like most hostel breakfasts, it consisted of bread and Nutella. I’m coming to find this is one of my favorite breakfasts and I’m looking forward to introducing it to my family when they get here. This one however, was special. Instead of slices of bread, we got miniature baguettes of French bread. Each little loaf was flaky on the outside, and warm and doughy on the inside. There was supposed to be cereal too, but they were out today.

As we ate, we met Jen and Rachel—apparently the two girls that had arrived at 1am. We also met Rebecca who had just arrived. Kevi arrived shortly after that and said that various members of our group were trickling in on various flights throughout the day. The seven of us that had arrived already set out to join Kevi on the first part of the tour.

We walked back to the metro that I had arrived on the day before. Riding it into town, we got off, and took stairs up to street level. In front of us was a large ornate building. The craftsmanship of each side was so intricate, it might as well have been a castle. With the French flag flying high overhead, Kevi explained that it was the Mayor’s Building.

“Paris is broken up into several districts,” he said. “Each district elects its own mayor and this is where they all meet.”

In front of the Mayor’s Building there was some sort of fun fair going on, complete with carousels and bouncy castles.

Crossing the street we came to a bridge over the Seine River (pronounced “Sin River” in French.) Kevi pulled us to the side to give us a little bit of a warning.

“Before we cross this bridge, there is something you should know,” he said. “There are going to be teenagers on it who come up to you with clipboards and shove them in your face. They will probably speak English and ask you to sign a petition for something. If you take the clipboard, they will probably reach in your pocket. If you don’t, they will ask you to donate money to the charity. There is no charity! This is a very popular scam all over Paris, but especially on some of these bridges and streets by the river. So just walk passed them and don’t talk to them.”

Crossing the bridge, we didn’t actually have any trouble. We did see kids mulling around with clipboards, and they did approach a few tourists. None of them actually came up to our group however.  

Just a couple blocks up the road, we came to the courtyard in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. With two large bell towers, a jagged crafted roof, and rows of statutes of saints on every façade, the entire building was breathtaking! I didn’t feel like I could ever get enough pictures to capture all of the intricacies of it.

To celebrate the anniversary of the construction, a large viewing platform has been built in front of the Cathedral for this year only. It was crawling with tourists and school groups, many of whom were actually attempting to sketch the details of the beautiful structure.

Needless to say, the line to go inside was massive. We waited out turn, shuffling along like cattle. I began to sneeze and realized this was really the first time my allergies had flared up in Europe. I didn’t know if the correlation was that I was allergic to something in Paris or if spring has just come so late, nothing has been in bloom until now.

As we went inside, I was surprised at how dark the sanctuary was. Even after my eyes adjusted, it seemed to be one of the most depressing churches I’d been in thus far. Many of the shrines were quite simple, with metallic statues and crucifixes lit by a single spotlight. The stained glass windows were made up of intricate designs, but were not particularly colorful or well lit.

What shocked me most were the confessionals. Unlike the fancy baroque boxes I’ve become accustom to seeing, these were entirely made of glass…and confession was going on inside. That seemed a little intrusive to me, and I decided it would be really tacky to take photos of the process.

The adoration chapel was beautiful with a stunning gold cross housing the body of Christ. Some of the rosette windows higher in the building were more colorful than the other glass panes at eye level.

In the nave behind the altar, there were large wood carvings depicting various events from the life of Christ. From the Last Supper to “doubting Thomas,” almost all of the events leading up to Christ’s crucifixion and then resurrection were portrayed in the intricate carving. As the walkway wrapped around, there was a large display with a huge unlit, candle chandelier.

The altar was draped in white with a large cross standing erect in the center. It was very beautiful and in some way, very hopeful.

The entire tour of the inside was a chaotic shuffle with the hundreds of other tourists that were visiting the cathedral. “This is one of the problems with Paris,” Kevi said. “Actually, it is a problem with all of Europe. Europe is becoming like Disney land for adults. Our only industry is becoming tourism and we are just accepting that and catering to it. Paris is like a big amusement part where people race from one activity they want to do to the next. It is kind of sad.”

Outside, Kevi gathered us around to point out some things on the main façade of the building.

“To understand Notre Dame,” he began, “you have to imagine that you are a French peasant in the middle ages. Back in the middle ages, there are only three ways to learn the gospel. You can read it in the Bible, is one. But if you are a French peasant, you can’t read. So you can go to church is another. But mass is in Latin, and if you are French peasant, you don’t understand Latin. So you can tell stories! This building was made as the ‘poor mans’ church. The front of it is meant to be the different stories.

“The Notre Dame was destroyed in the French Revolution,” Kevi explained. “Because the church and the monarchy were so intertwined, people attacked the church as a way to rebel against the French kings. Originally, after the revolution, the church was going to be destroyed, but it was saved by a man named Victor Hugo.

“American’s all know Victor Hugo from his play—the big movie right now—Les Miserables. He also wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame which was such a famous book, they knew they had to preserve the church for all of the fans of the book who would come to see it. They couldn’t destroy it or there would have been outrage.

“You might notice on the row of saints that one of the saints is different.”

We studied it for a few rows. Sure enough, over the left door, one of the saints was holding his head in his hands. He wasn’t grabbing his head; rather, his head was detached from the body and he was holding it in his hands.

“This is St. Dennis. He was the first archbishop of Paris. When he arrived, the locals did not take kindly to his teachings of Christianity to they decided to take him up Montmartre and crucify him. Dennis saw this as a great honor to die for his church, but on the way up Montmartre, one of the guards got upset, drew his sword and cut off Dennis’ head. The story, according to the church, is that Dennis wanted to die on the top of the mountain, so he picked up his head and carried it to the top, where he died.”

As Kevi was giving this explanation, several more girls joined our group. Introductions got kind of jumbled and I really didn’t catch their names. As soon as we were all together, we continued on our tour. Walking around to the side of the church, Kevi pointed out the famous gargoyles, mostly popularized by the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Behind the church is a beautiful garden, with tons of trees, tulips, and an awesome fountain. It smelled clean and fresh. There was actually a wedding taking place in the garden, and lots of tourists were stopping to catch photos of the bride and groom’s romantic moment.

Crossing through the garden, we came to another bridge that lead back across the Seine. This was another love bridge covered with locks. Of all the “lock bridges” I’ve seen in Europe, this one had THE MOST locks. Not a single inch of the bridge was left empty, and in many cases there were locks locked onto locks.

“This bridge has become mostly for tourists,” Kevi said. “The joke in Paris is that if you are French and you are putting a lock on this bridge, it means that you have a lovelock on a different bridge with someone else.” We did see a few combination locks and had to laugh at the irony. “It is the perfect plan,” Kevi said. “If it doesn’t work out, you can back and remove it!” There were also bike locks, cable locks, and locks that held other mementos like jewelry or graduation tassels to the bridge.

Kevi also pointed out the view we now had of the backside of Notre Dame.

“Do you see the statues climbing the tower,” he asked. “The architect that designed Notre Dame carved his face into that statue. He is sort of saying he is the Patron Saint of Notre Dame.”

“How much do we have to pay to slide down the gutters like Quasimodo?” I asked. Kevi, Brandon, Mariah, and Will laughed.

Crossing the bridge, we were now entering the Latin Quarter. These winding streets were where many of the famous scenes of Paris are shot. We walked along the river for a bit, and I recognized the little book stands we passed from Midnight in Paris. A few blocks later, we came to the book store “Shakespeare and Sons.”

“Has anyone seen the Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris?” Kevi asked.

Oh irony…

I raised my hand and a few other people did too. He pointed out the book stands as well as this book store. He explained that the plot of the movie—aside from the whole time travel fantasy—is accurate. Many American writers did come to Paris for inspiration and to swap ideas with each other in the 1920s. “Of course the movie makes it look like Paris is very tiny,” Kevi continued. “They are at Versailles and they walk to Notre Dame. They are at Montmartre and they turn around to see the Eiffel Tower.”

We continued into the town and through the winding little streets. The architecture everywhere was so unique, with no two buildings looking exactly the same. As we passed one Crepe shop, a waiter in the door offered us a sample. They were bites of tightly rolled crepe covered in butter, cinnamon, and sugar. It was amazingly sweet. After one bite, my mouth was watering for more.

When we came around a corner and up to one street, Kevi said. “I have a funny story about this street. If I say to you ‘special schools’ what does that phrase mean in English?”

We all threw out various definitions, basically saying that it referred to schools for people with mental or physical disabilities.

“On my tour, I used to say that this street was where all the special school in Paris are,” he said. “I meant that it was where all the important, fancy schools are, but my customers used to get very confused and offended. I could never figure out why until one lady asked me why Paris hated disabled people.”

We all laughed.

“This word ‘special’ it is politically correct in English for disabled, no?” We didn’t really know how to answer that. It was certainly used that way, but it didn’t really feel that way.

On one side of the street was Paris University. This school was a bit of an oddity. It was free, there was no tuition. There was also no admittance protocol or procedure. Additionally there was no diploma or degree. It was just experts from different fields teaching classes and sharing information on things they were passionate about.

Across from the university was the more famous Sorbonne. This school did offer degrees, and it was massive. I bet the building was at least a half mile long in both length and width.

Climbing up the hill alongside the Sorbonne,  we arrived at the Pantheon. Constructed during the French Revolution, the people wanted it to be a different type of church. Instead of housing worship, it houses crypts with various famous people in it. There is 10 euro ticket to get in, but Kevi said it isn’t very interesting inside.

As he was talking, I turned around…

That was the first time I saw it…

In the distance, just down the hill…

Just how I’d imagined it…

The Eiffel Tower. 

Meeting People

"When you begin to touch your heart or let your heart be touched, you begin to discover that it’s bottomless, that it doesn’t have any resolution, that this heart is huge, vast, and limitless. You begin to discover how much warmth and gentleness is there, as well as how much space.” ~Pema Chodron

May 2, 2013 (Continued)

“I am Zachary,” I said, totally taken aback that this black man, who’d been speaking fluent French just seconds ago knew my name.

“You are with WSA!” he said. “I’m Kevi. I will be your guide!” He stuck out his hand to shake mine

“Oh! Right!” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“According to my information, you were the earliest one to arrive. You haven’t seen any others?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But I just checked in.”

“Have you had any trouble with the hostel? Do you need anything?” It was so funny to hear his thick French accent.

“No,” I said, still ready to go sleep. “Everything’s great. I’m just going to go take a nap.”

He chuckled. “Ok then, well I will be back tonight at 8:00 to meet with you and any others that come today.”

“Great!” I said. “Just down here?”

“Yes,” he said. “I will be here at reception at 8:00.”

“I’ll see you then!” I said.

Riding the elevator back up to the room, I was ready for my nap. The beds were built into the wall in little cubbies with privacy curtains that could be drawn. There were crates to store things under the bottom bunk, but they didn’t have locks on them. The crate was too big to fit my TSA lock, so I stuck my stuff at the foot of my bed. Resting my feet on top of my things, I drew the curtain and finally lay down.

Of course now, my brain was too anxious to sleep. Within minutes, the door opened and someone came in. I pulled open the curtain to see who it was. A tall guy with a goatee came in and started stowing his stuff under his bed.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Zach.” I reached out my hand to be social.

“Jack,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“I’m originally from Arizona,” he said. That seemed like a vague way to answer that question. “You?” he asked.

“I’m from the US,” I said. “I’m studying in Prague this semester.”

“Oh,” he said. I was getting the sense that conversation made him uncomfortable. “I’m studying in Ireland.”

“Very cool,” I said. “Are you here with the Weekend Student Adventures group by chance?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes I am.”

“Me too!” I said. Coaxing the conversation beyond that was more work than I was willing to do. I decided I would wait until I was in a better mood to continue chatting. “I’m going to take a nap now, but I’ll chat more with you later.”

“Ok,” he said.

I redrew my curtain, and after he stowed his stuff, I heard him leave.

I checked my watch. It was 2:45. I set an alarm on my iPod for 6:00, so that if I ever got to sleep, I would wake up in time to get some dinner and meet Kevi.

With that, I finally dozed off.

I was woken up by the sound of the door opening, and two voices—one male and one female—stumbling into the room. I could hear them talking about which bed to claim, and I heard them checking behind curtains to see which were open. I stuck my foot out of the curtain and over the edge of the bed, so that they could see I was in here, without opening the curtain. After a few minutes, they left.

As I was trying to get back to sleep, I heard them come in again. This time, they were joined by a voice I recognized. It was the owner from downstairs. Apparently, this whole room was supposed to be empty. He promised to send house keeping up to get the beds remade and find out who was still here.

I checked my watch again and saw that I had slept for about 20 minutes. Between the traffic outside, the bells in the school yard, my new roommates, and housekeeping…20 minutes appeared to be as good as it gets.

I pulled open the curtain. “Hi,” I said.

“Oh Hi!” the girl said. “I’m sorry, did we wake you?”

“Not really,” I sort of lied. “I’m Zach.”

“Mariah,” she said.

“Brandon,” the guy said. He was unpacking his backpack and folding his clothes neatly into the crate under his bunk.

A funny thing happened at that point. The three of us started talking…a lot. They had just happened to run into each other at the airport and discovered they were both studying in Ireland and both coming on the WSA Paris trip. Mariah had been to Prague and considered it one of her favorite cities in Europe. Our conversation just took off from there. We talked about our families back home, various cities we’d travelled to, jobs back home, books we’ve read, etc.

At one point, I made the comment, “I’m Eagle Scout…”

“No way,” Brandon interrupted me. “Me too!”

“Do we have to do the secret handshake now,” I joked.

“Only if you want to,” he retorted, equally as sarcastic as I had been.

In an odd way, talking lifted my spirits. I didn’t feel as run down as I had before. My brain still ached a little, but I didn’t feel as irritable or worn out.

Around 5:00, I asked, “Do you guys want to go try and find some dinner?”

“I’m actually exhausted,” Brandon said. “Could we take like a 20 minute nap, and then head out?”

That sounded perfect.

I’m not sure I actually slept anymore, but just laying down felt great. We waited a little past 20 minutes, but about 5:30, they were ready to head out. Jack came back too and we invited him to join us. I wrapped my ankle again, and we went to wander along the canal to find a restaurant.

The people at reception gave a few suggestions. Apparently we were in a fairly residential area so everything in this area was pretty cheap. We never found any of the specific restaurants they proposed, but we as some beautiful scenery around the part of the canal I hadn’t been to. Like many of the other European cities, there were lots of little playgrounds scattered around with little kids and their parents playing and enjoying the outdoors.

As we walked around, we’d check the menu on the door before going into a place. Mariah knew a little French so she would translate. For being “cheap” all of these prices seemed pretty expensive to me. As we wrapped down to the end of the canal, we came to a beautiful courtyard with a huge fountain in it. It was very crowded, and this was the most expensive food we’d seen.

Deciding that restaurants closer to the hostel had had better deals, we wrapped back up the street, and cut across the canal on a large overpass bridge. The views were beautiful. The sun was just starting to set, and late afternoon shadows were being scattered around the streets. The architecture of all the buildings was so beautiful. I was starting to see the magic of Paris.

We found a restaurant and went in to take a seat. The bar tender called over to us—in English—asking if we wanted drinks. We asked for menus, and he said dinner wasn’t served until 7:30. Knowing that we all had to be back to meet Kevi, and not wanting to wait another hour to eat, we decided to give up and go eat at the hostel restaurant.

Crowding into a circular booth, we looked over the menus. I ordered an Orangina again to drink and a croque-madame sandwich.  It was basically a grilled cheese sandwich with ham in it and fried egg cooked over top. It tasted great!

Our waiter was hilarious too. When Jack flagged him down, he said, in a very heavy French accent, “What do you need boy? More food? A woman? Both?”

As we sat around the table sharing more stories, I saw Kevi come in. He looked lost, searching around for us, so I waved to get his attention. He came over and sat down with us. The rest of the group got introduced to him and our waiter cleared our plates.

“Do you guys want to walk around? Do you want to stay here? The canal is a good local hang out place,” he said. “The locals come out at night and just sit around it and enjoy being outside. It is not very touristy so it never gets real crowded.”

“I’m definitely up for a walk,” I said. I’d passed exhaustion and was now moving on to delirium so getting outside and getting some exercise sounded great. The rest of the group agreed.

“Ok,” Kevi said, his accent still throwing me off. “Does someone want to check the room to make sure we aren’t missing anyone?”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered.

I rode up in the elevator, and went to the room. Sure enough, I found a dark-skinned girl with curly black hair stowing her stuff in a crate.

“Are you with WSA?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. I detected a bit of an accent, but I couldn’t place it.

“I’m Zach,” I said.

“Wildaly,” she said.

“I’m sorry?” I said, hoping she would repeat it.

“Wildaly,” she said. “Just call me Will.”

“Ok,” I smiled. “Kevi, our guide is here. He was going to take us for a walk around the canal if you want to join us downstairs.”

“Oh great!” she said. “I will finish stowing my stuff and come right down.”

“Awesome,” I said. “I will see you down there.”

I reported back to the group, and we waited for Will to come down. When she did, we took a short walk down to the end of the canal that I’d been hanging out at most of the day. There, there was a small bar called 61, which we went in to take a seat. Ordering tap water, we sat around sharing stories.

Kevi shared with us that he had been born and raised on the island of Martinique, an overseas region of France. After studying an interning all over the world—from New York, Barcelona, Taiwan, and Hong Kong—he graduated college and settled in Paris. He gives tours for different agencies almost every day of the week and hopes to start his own company called Black Paris Walks.

“I haven’t seen so many black people in Europe until I came here,” Will said.

“I agree,” I said. “It surprised me.”

“France has a lot of black people,” Kevi said. “Do you know why?”

None of us did.

“It was mostly to piss off the Americans,” he said. “In the 1920s and 30s, rich Americans were flooding to Paris for vacations. Since racism was so strong in America, the French government decided to also welcome in immigrants from Africa, as well as Africans from America who were trying to flee the oppression in the states. So when the Americans came to Paris, they would be like ‘I don’t want to sit here with these black people.’ And there was nothing they could do about it because they were totally equal in Paris. Since then, Paris became a safe place for black immigrants to come, so a lot of them settled here.”

“I didn’t expect that,” Will said.

“No one does,” Kevi said. “Everyone thinks ‘Oh Paris! It will be these skinny white guys walking around with baguettes.’”

“I have definitely seen more black people than baguettes,” I said.

He laughed. “That could be my marketing slogan. Black Paris Walks: more blacks than baguettes!”

Kevi also shared that the gypsies in Paris were just as hated as they were everywhere in Europe. He explained however that not all beggars were gypsies.

“There is sort of an odd thing in Paris,” he said. “You will see little kids or men with no legs sitting in the metros asking for money. Think about it. How does a man with no legs get down into the metro? How do little kids know how to beg? There is sort of a system, like…how do you call it…pimping?...where people are hired to beg because they are young or because they look pitiful, but the money goes back to the person they work for.”

At that point we sat around sharing funny stories from our various trips around Europe. Brandon hated the weather in Ireland, while Mariah hated the food. Will was from Puerto Rico, but was studying for a year in Italy.

“I have never been with so many funny Americans,” she said at one point.

After we’d finished our drinks, we headed back to the hostel. Kevi said that he would meet us—and the 12 other people that were supposed to be arriving—tomorrow at 10am. We thanked him, and headed up to the room. I was pleasantly surprised that not only did the front desk rent towels, but they sold cheap razors. I got one of each and went to take a shower.

The showers in this hostel were sort of locker room style, down the hall from the room. Like Barcelona, the water was on a 30 second timer, and the button had to be re-pushed ever half minute to keep the stream flowing.

Brandon was in one of the stalls when I came in. “So what did you do for your Eagle project?” he yelled over the side of the stall, competing with the sound of the water. I told him about my project and he shared about his. It wasn’t until we went back to our room and found Mariah siting in the hall on her laptop, that we learned the whole floor could pretty much hear our conversation.

We all sat out in the hall for a while trying to connect to the Wi-Fi. At this point, I’d been up for about 36 hours with only two little 20 minute naps. Unable to get or maintain connectivity, I decided to call it a night and went into the room to journal. It had been a fun evening. This was a great group and in some way—probably because we’d all been alone for so long—we felt like a little temporary family.

And with this temporary family, I was excited to see the magical city of Paris.

The Longest Day (Part 2)

May 2, 2013 (Continued)

At the front desk, I inquired about an ATM. I didn’t fully understand the directions he gave to me, not because they weren’t clear but because I wasn’t really listening. My head was pounding and I wanted to sleep. I got the gist of what he said…head back towards the metro…next to the stairs…across from some bakery…yada yada yada.

I went outside and retraced my steps back to the Crimée intersection. My foot was killing me too. It felt like the bandage was getting tighter and tighter with every step I took. By the stairs for the metro, I saw the ATM. I had some Euros left over from my previous trips, so I only took out enough to get me back to my usual budget.

I saw the bakery that he had referenced in giving me directions and went inside. I decided it was time to try and have some fun in France, so I ordered a croissant. I practices saying “Si-vous plait” when I ordered and “merci” when they gave me the croissant. I was surprised at how friendly the staff was. They spoke English to me the entire time.

The croissant was good too! It wasn’t like any croissant I’d had before. Instead of being light and doughy like store bought croissants, this was firm and flaky. It wasn’t super sweet, but very satisfying!

I walked back towards the hostel. Just next to the hostel was a large shipping canal. Kevi had emailed us that there was a nice walking path around the canal. Shuffling along and munching on my croissant, I decided to give the walk a try. The buildings were quite beautiful and I passed a crazy, chaotic outdoor market. Again, it was probably my tired brain, but my paranoia kept me from joining in that mob scene. There was a nice breeze blowing, and it brought with it a very sweet fragrance. The water in the canal however was not the source of the smell. It was so discolored; I didn’t even want to think about what might be the source of the pollution.

After walking down one side of the canal, I decided to head back towards the hostel and get an early lunch in the restaurant. Aside from the croissant and blueberry muffin at 3am, I hadn’t really had anything to eat in the last 12 hours. The hostel restaurant had a student discount so I figured that would be a good place to start for a cheap meal, and perhaps some blood sugar would improve my mood.

Walking in the main entrance of the hostel, I asked the same guy at the counter if I ordered lunch at a table or at the bar.

“You will order at a table,” he said. “They have menus. But lunch is not served until noon.”

So many four letter words raced through my exhausted brain.

“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile and turned to head back outside.

There was a little courtyard just outside the hostel and I went over to a bench and sat down. I felt so hopeless. I wanted to be excited. I wanted to be having adventures…but not like this. Not when I’m tired I can barely stand up.

Going back outside, I saw a small courtyard just across from the hostel. I walked over to it and sat on a bench. There were pigeons scattered all over scavenging for non-existent crumbs. I tried really hard to perk up—although a nap on the bench felt like a good idea at this point. The logical side of my brain told me that was a good way to lose my passport, so I tried to think of other simple ways to get excited about Paris.

I didn’t want to go all the way into the center of town, because (a) I didn’t know which direction the center of town was, and while I probably could have asked for directions in the hostel, (b) I didn’t know what all would be covered on our tour tomorrow, and (c) I didn’t want to experience Paris pissed off about how tired I was.

So I decided to try another walk. I wandered back towards the metro stop, and this time turned left to walk along the busier road. As I walked a few blocks, I made a few observations about the people I was passing. A lot of them had little rolling bags that they pulled behind them. As they went from shop to shop, and bakery to bakery, they put their wares in these bags.

The diversity continued to jump out to me. In Prague, probably 99% of the population is Caucasian. This has been pretty much true of everywhere I’ve travelled—Germany, Spain, Amsterdam, Switzerland, etc. In just a block I saw a dozen different religions and races represented on the streets.

The French people themselves seemed very serious. I suppose that has been my impression everywhere I went. I did note, however, that they were very willing to make eye contact with you. They didn’t necessarily smile, but they didn’t have the downcast looks that I’ve gotten in most places.

The characteristics of both genders tended to be very feminine. From the way people walked, to the way they crossed their legs to sit, every movement seemed very deliberate and dainty. I also noted some of the frequent and bizarre haircuts. From strange comb-overs to odd designs shaved into the sides, there were some unique hairstyles present on the streets of Paris.

The architecture along the streets was beautiful. Like in Barcelona—in fact, a lot about the city reminded me of Barcelona—many of the apartment complexes were not just practical in structure, but decorative as well. There were beautiful flowering trees along the walkway, and even some palm trees sprouted up on occasion.

After walking about a half a mile, I came to an overpass with a train rushing by overhead. I started feeling a throbbing sensation in my foot decided to turn back. This just is not my day.

Back at the bench in the courtyard, I removed my shoe and undid the bandage. Giving my foot some freedom felt great, and I sat for a bit people watching and enjoying the fresh air.

You are having fun Zach. You’re just tired and hungry…but this is going to be a great adventure, I pep-talked myself.

I’d brought some notes with me to study for some exams. Finals started the day after I got back so I’d planned to study some while I was here. With a bum foot, nowhere to go, and nowhere to sleep for another 2 ½ hours, it seemed like a good time to be productive.

I rolled up the bandage, but my sock and shoe back on, and went back to the hostel. Going downstairs, I scanned my code and opened the locker. Cramming the bandage in with my other things, I pulled out my bag, and went up to take a seat in the restaurant.

I reviewed notes and started creating a little study guide in the back of my usual journal. I also connected my iPod to the hostel Wi-Fi so I could look up some things online. Eventually, noon came and a waiter brought me a menu. I ordered the chicken fillet and an Orangina to drink.

While I waited for my food, I opened Facebook on my iPod. Liz, Tory, and Gaby (who I met in Amsterdam) are all taking finals and heading home next week. Amy (who I met in Barcelona) is home.

I want to go home…at least I think I do.

I forced myself to think about it for a few seconds. Was I really as burnt out as I felt? What happened to that rush I had two weeks ago in Switzerland when I couldn’t even imagine going back now? This had to be the tired brain talking.

My order turned out to be the best, most juicy and flavorful chicken tenders I’ve ever had! And Orangina—which is a French company—is my new favorite Orange soda. And blood sugar did make me feel instantly better!

As I continued studying, I noticed how blue the sky was outside. It’d been overcast since I arrived—I hadn’t really noted it since all of Europe seems to be overcast a majority of the time—but seeing that blue sparkle overhead brought a beaming smile to my face. I was surprised that the pop/techno music the restaurant was playing actually seemed to help me focus. The song “Clocks” by Coldplay came on the loudspeaker, and I smiled at the lyric “Home, where I want to be!”

Chuckling at the irony of those words, I realized, I am exhausted, but I’m not ready to go home. Even being burnt out is fun in away. It reminds me of how hard I’ve been playing for the past 3 months. And perhaps this was a good little study…”This is Zach’s brain...and this is Zach’s brain on 2 hours of sleep.” While I do love adventure, I have to remember that I can’t just keep going and going without taking care of my body along the way. Skipping sleep and missing meals makes me depressed, paranoid, and irritable. I’ve learned a serious lesson today!

Feeling quite satisfied with myself, I packed up my things, journalled a little, and then paid the bill. Going up the registration desk, I asked the same guy, “Can I check in yet?”

He looked at the clock on the wall. I knew what he was going to say.

“It is only 1:30. You need to wait 30 more minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He hesitated, and studied the clock. “Actually, probably 20 minutes will be okay.”

“Great!” I said, meaning every letter of the single syllable word. “Thank you SO MUCH!”

I went back outside and took another lap around the upper part of the canal. The fresh air felt great, the blue sky was amazing, and the freedom of wandering the streets was liberating. I was a bit disgusted by seeing people fishing in the tawny colored water. Anything that was caught in that canal was sure to be growing and extra eye and probably missing a few chromosomes.

Finishing the lap, I found my way back to the little courtyard outside the hostel. I watched as the kids played in the playground across the street, and listened to the noise of traffic honking their way down the crowded road. When a barge would come through the canal, a gate would close the road, and the bridge would physically lift (not open on a hinge like a drawbridge, but the entire section of road lifted on a hydraulic frame) to let the boat pass underneath.

I was so distracted by observing the hustle and bustle around me, that I didn’t even register the bell in the clock tower chiming. It wasn’t until I heard the two loud rings that indicated the time, that my brain realized it was 2:00!

I picked up my bag and rushed back into the hostel. By now, a line had formed to check-in and I had to wait. When I got up to the counter, a different man—who I gathered by the way the employees talked to him was the owner—helped me. He gave my choice of a top or bottom bunk (and gawked when I chose top…telling me the bottom was always better) and gave me my room key.

I went over to ride the elevator up to room 206. On the elevator, I met two girls from Canada who were just starting a three month backpacking trip across the continent. We were so engrossed in conversation, that we didn’t realize the elevator required a key to operate. Basically, it was programed so you scanned your key card when you entered and it only took you to your floor.

As they rode up to 6 and I attempted to ride down to 2, I got stopped a few times by different cleaning staff. I finally made it to room 206, only to discover that my bed (the bottom bunk #A that he had talked me into) was occupied.

Riding the elevator back down to the lobby, I found a different employee to help me.

“I’m supposed to be in room 206, bed A, but it has someone’s things on it,” I explained.

“Oh!” she said. “Is bed B open.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is B ok?” she asked in a heavy French accent.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I just want to sleep.”

“Ok,” she smiled, at my obviously too enthusiastic response. “Let me just change you in our system.”

“Great!” I said. A tall black man was standing next to me and going back and forth with the man I presumed was the owner. They were speaking French so I couldn’t follow most of it.

“Alright,” she asked, “what is your name?”

“Zachary,” I said.

“You are Zachary!” the black man next to me exclaimed. “It is so nice to meet you! I’ve been looking for you!”

Well that was not what I had expected.

The Longest Day (Part 1)

“I get up every morning determined to both change the world and have on hell of a good time. Sometimes, this makes planning my day difficult.” ~E.B. White

May 2, 2013 (Continued)

I tried to sleep on the plane, but it was the bumpiest flight I’ve ever been on. It wasn’t the crazy kind of turbulence that makes your stomach jump. It was the annoying shaking kind that makes it impossible to doze off without banging your head on the window every few minutes.

As we began our descent, the captain turned on the fasten seatbelt sign, and announced that we’d be touching down at Charles Du Gaulle in fifteen minutes. Somewhere within that fifteen minutes, I fell into a deep sleep. It wasn’t for very long, but it was deep enough that I woke up startled when we touched down. For a brief second, I couldn’t remember where I was or how I got here—that same type of panic you sometimes feel waking up in a hotel when you expected to be in your house. Of course, it all came rushing back to me, but it was a little unnerving.

Getting off the plane, we exited down stairs again. I was only half awake and swore I could fall fight back into REM if given a second to sit down. As I looked around the tarmac, there was no building to be seen. There was a highway, a few hotels on the other side of it, but nothing nearby that looked like an airport.

We all crammed into a bus and rode it to Terminal 3. Inside the terminal, there was a map of the train system. My guide for the week—whose name was Kevi—had emailed us that we were going to take the train from CDG to the city center, and then catch the metro to the hostel. Looking at my email on my iPod, I found that the train I needed was called the RER. Looking around the terminal, I saw several signs directing people to the RER.

It was true that CDG was one of the most interesting airports I’ve seen. The terminals were not connected. There were signs directing passengers on the ½ mile walk from Terminal 3 back to terminals 1 & 2. The RER signs pointed in the same direction, so I kept limping along to get there. The path took me down a long hill, through a tunnel that went under a highway, and into terminal 2. Along the way, I couldn’t help but notice how many smokers I saw. It seemed that everyone I passed was smoking something.

In terminal 2, I found a board displaying all of the different trains that were coming. I needed one that was going to Gare du Nord. I had no idea which of the RER trains was going there at that was, but more importantly, I had no idea how to pronounce the name of that place to begin with.

Spotting an informance desk, I went up to ask for help. Not wanting to sound like a stupid American, I opened the email and showed it to the man behind the counter.

“Platform 24,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Do I need a ticket?”

“Yes,” he said. “At office.” He pointed across the way to an RER office.

I went over and waited in the line. Looking again at the board, I saw that there were two different RER trains coming to Platform 24.

When it was my turn to buy a ticket, I fumbled with the phrase “Gare du Nord” before again just showing my iPod to the employee. The email said the ticket should cost 15 euros, but he only charged me 9.

“Merci,” I said, trying to use a little bit of French. “Which train is it?”

“Platform 24,” he said again.

“Which train at platform 24,” I asked.

“Platform 24!” he barked this time.

Great! This wasn’t getting me anywhere!

I scanned my ticket to get access to the escalator. On the other side, there was a screen listing all of the stops on both of the trains. A homeless looking man came up and started talking to me. I shook my head and raised my hand to indicate I wasn’t going to give him money. As he walked away, I realized he’d actually been speaking English and had been offering to help me. Unfortunately, he was now out of ear shot.

Scanning the board, I saw that the first train had a stop called Nord. That was the closest thing to Gare du Nord that I saw. I decided I was going with that one.

Taking the escalator down to platform 24, I realized I felt more nervous now than I had the entire time I’d been in Europe. Well maybe not the entire time, I was pretty nervous for those first few weeks…back at Heathrow Airport, I felt like I was going to puke walking around by myself. Now, I was just sort of irritated, and that was making me anxious. I didn’t want to be navigating trains. I didn’t want to be stuck not knowing the local language. I just wanted to…in all honesty, I just wanted to go to sleep. I had a pounding headache and the two hours of on-again-off-again dozing that I had done weren’t cutting it.

The train pulled up, I got on board. As we started pulling out of the station, I realized that some of my anxiety was also caused by the French stereotypes that I still carried around. Despite becoming good friends with Thibaut , and enjoying all of the other French students I’d met, the American in me still had this filter based on all the stories I’d heard about French people.

I’d been told they were snobs who looked down on anyone not French.

I’d been told they knew English, but they wouldn’t speak it to you, because they are so proud of their language.

I’d been told they hate Americans.

While none of these things were true about the French students I’d met in Prague, I couldn’t help but find myself fearful that they might be true here in France.

Trying to distract myself, I started staring out the window. We were riding through beautiful green fields with amazing views of both distant skylines and pretty scenery. Looking around the train, I realized this was the most ethnically diverse group I’d seen since I left the States. There were a lot of black people and a ton of Muslims.

There were two women who had gotten on the train the same time I did. They were sitting across from each other on the other side of the aisle from me. When we arrived at one stop, they both stood up. Suddenly, I was surprised as they embraced in a very passionate kiss. It was brief, but more intense than the peck on the cheek I’d seen in other countries. This was full lip-on-lip contact, and it lingered a bit. I’d been warned that the French kiss goodbye—but this gave new meaning to the phrase “French kiss.”

They waved goodbye and the one woman sat back down. A black man boarded the train and sat next to me.

As the train started moving again, I realized we’d been skipping some stations. What did that mean? What if they skip my station? What if my station isn’t really my station? What am I doing here? I just want to sleep!

Fortunately, after about 30 minutes, we arrived and stopped at the Nord station. I got off and found that it appeared to be a massive central station with transfers to lots of different trains. I needed to find Metro line 5 to Stalingrad, where I would transfer to line 7.

Walking around, there were swarms of people rushing every-which-way speaking what felt like a million different languages (none of them English.) I saw signs for the metro and followed them. Eventually, I found signs for metro line 5.

As I followed the “5” signs and soon found another set of gated entries.

I’m going to be so pissed if I need another ticket, I thought to myself. I didn’t even see anywhere to buy tickets. Observing for a few seconds, it seemed that people were arriving on the RER, getting off, and using the same ticket for the metro.

I decided to try it.

Rescanning my same ticket, the mechanical gate swung open, and I walked in. Success!

Walking down the steps, I found my way to the platform and waited for the metro. When the train arrived (within minutes) I wondered which direction this one was going. Looking at the list of tops, I guessed it had probably come from Stalingrad. I needed one going to Stalingrad.

I let this train go and wove my way through the halls of the metro to get to the other side of the platform. Hobbling onto the metro as it arrived—my foot was really starting to hurt—it pulled out of the station. No sooner had we departed that I realized this train was going the wrong way. The first one I’d been on was right.

I was angry. I knew it wasn’t a big deal. It was a mistake I’d made plenty of times when I first arrived in Europe. But in that moment, it felt like the end of the world. I was tired of getting lost. I was tired of not knowing where I was going. I was tired of taking adventures…I just wanted to sleep!!!

I got off at the next station, found a train going the other way and rode it to Stalingrad. There, I transferred to the 7 line and rode it to my stop (Crimée.)

Up a street level, the view really was impressive. I was at an intersection of two beautiful roads, with ornate buildings all around. There were bakeries and little merchant shops all around. At the time, I didn’t take it in, but the reality was, it was a neat little square.

In that sleep-deprived moment however, all I cared about was the fact the email directions were wrong. I’d gotten off at the right stop, but the cross streets were wrong. I walked around for a bit until I found the right intersection. Crossing the street, I started looking for my hostel. It was described as looking “like a building wrapped in rubber bands.”

Calm down Zach! I thought to myself. You’re living the dream right now. You’re walking the streets of Paris. Just enjoy it!

I’d rather be in a dream right now! The voice in my head started to argue. I just want to sleep!

But in trying to relax, that was when I realized how pretty the streets around me really were. The apartments along this road were very decorative, and when I passed a school yard, I couldn’t believe how incredible the building looked.

As I went to take a photo of the school, a little girl—probably 7 years old—came up to me pushing a baby—probably 18 months—in a stroller. She was wearing a hijab and held out her hand, saying something in French.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t speak French.”

She repeated what she had said, but this time held her hand to her stomach and then to her mouth.

This was a scam I’d been warned about in a lot of travel books. Frequently, con-artists, beggars, and gypsies will use children—their own or others—to beg for money.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

She smiled, a very precious smile, and began pushing the stroller and walked away.

As she wandered off, I turned and realized that my hostel—the rubber band wrapped building—was right across the street from this school I was photographing. I crossed the street, and walked inside.

It was a pretty nice facility. There was a restaurant off to one side of the reception area and a study room off to the other. I approached the desk where two friendly gentlemen greeted me.

“Hello mate,” the one said. “How can we help you?”

“I’m here with the Weekend Student Adventures group,” I said.

“He’ll take care of you,” the man said, pointing to the other.

“Who did you say?” he asked.

“The Weekend Student Adventure group,” I said.

He scrolled through the computer. “Do you pay individually or together?” he asked.

“Normally out guide comes and pays for all of us,” I said. This was like the tenth week of the semester…how did they not have that figured out? (Sorry, that was sleep deprived Zach talking)

“Ok,” he said. “I think I found it. Check-in is not until 2:00 though.”

I was so afraid he was going to say that. Checking my watch, I saw that it was 10:15.

My heart sank.

“You can leave your bag in a locker downstairs,” he offered.

“Thank you,” I said, and wandered down to the basement.

The hostel had the same “smart” locker system as the airport in Amsterdam. Reading the instructions, it made a little more sense to me. I put in money, and it gave me a barcode. At the same time, a locker popped open. I would then scan my barcode in-order to reopen my locker later, and then it would charge me for however much time I’d used it.

Stowing my stuff, I headed outside to…I didn’t know what I was going to do.

2:55am

“You can only come to the morning through the shadows.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien

May 2, 2013 (Continued)

Prague Ruzyne Airport doesn’t even open until 4:00am. Not that is an interesting point to consider. The airport closes. It doesn’t close in the sense of “lock the doors and everyone go home” but it does close. All of the check-in counters close. All of the restaurants close. Security closes. There are no flights in or out between a certain time range.

There were a handful of people milling around the terminal. Several homeless people were lying across the benches. A few over-egger travelers like myself had also arrived early. Then entire room was so quiet, you could practically hear each other breathing.

I found one café that was open and got a blueberry muffin and some English breakfast tea. I’d known I was going to have some extra time at the airport (I had no idea how much extra time) so I’d made arrangements to Skype my friend James. Booting up my iPod, I gave him a call.

We talked until he had to go eat dinner. I told him I’d call him back once I got through security (to kill the remaining 2 hours I was going to have.) While I waited, I texted with Bryan—I don’t care if it makes me sound like an American, a teenager, or what, but having reliable WiFi is a wonderful thing.

The check-in desk opened at 4:00. I was the first and only person in line. Presenting my passport, they printed my boarding pass. A kindergartener with a crayon could have produced a more professional looking document. It was very basic wit just my name, my flight number, the gate number, and my seat assignment (a window!)

I went to security where again I was the first and only person in line. I presented my passport and my boarding pass to the woman. She studied it, and then looked over to the other guards. She looked back at my passport, then back to them. It seemed like she wanted to call them over. After several awkward seconds of staring at each other, she let me through. That was when I realized, they didn’t have any of the scanners turned on; she was holding me to give them more time.

I put my things into a bin on the conveyor belt. They had me wait for a few more minutes to make sure the machine was all the way on. Once it activated, I passed through with no problem and made my way down to gate C7 (across from where I’d taken off for Switzerland.)

All of the escalators and moving sidewalks were switched off for the night. Only the emergency lighting was on, and much of the terminal was still dark. I walked down several hallways without seeing another person.

At the gate, I found an outlet to plug in my iPod, and called James back. He had done a little research on Smartwings for me. It turned out, that since I arrived in Prague on Feburary 8^th, the airline has had two different crashes. Both of them occurred during take off out of Prague Ruzyne International Airport.

James and I hadn’t talked in a while so I got him caught up on my adventures in Amsterdam and in Zurich. We laughed at the fact that apparently stupid Americans were the only people who showed up at the airport 2 hours before a flight. I had the gate to myself until almost 5:00.

As more and more people showed up, the WiFi gradually slowed down. James and I said goodbye and I hung up. Putting away my iPod, I noticed all the different languages and accents that were flying to Paris. They seemed to be mostly Czech and French (not a lot of Europeans travel at 5am unless they have to.)

French is a language that really puzzles me. The only two words I remembered from Will and Cole was “peu” (which means “little.”) They had tried to teach me how to say “I only speak a little French” but “little” was all I remembered. Mary had taught me “seva” which she said was slang, like “Ok.” Thibaut had taught me “please” (“s’il vous plait” pronounced “se-voo-pley”) but I couldn’t say it to save my life. Everyone back home had given me horror stories of the French being awful and rude to tourists who didn’t speak French.

This was going to be fun.

I journalled a bit, before I heard a boarding call. I got up to get on the plane, but no one else did. They also weren’t letting anyone on the plane. Apparently it had been a “false alarm”…?

I sent Bryan another text and he warned me that Charles Du Gaulle Airport has a reputation for being the hardest airport to navigate. More international flights are missed there than any other European airport, because of its large and erratic layout. With a “good luck” text from Bryan, I heard a real boarding call and went to get on the plane.

My seat was 22A. There wasn’t much leg room, but more than I’d had with Easyjet. I stored my bag under the seat in front of me. My foot was craned a little awkwardly and it started to hurt, but I shrugged off—not much I could do about it anyway.

As we taxied out, I had to chuckle a little thinking about the facts James had shared with me. We however had a successful take off and rapidly climbed above the still falling rain to our cruising altitude.

 

Roll of Thunder

“Life is too short, or too long, for me to allow myself the luxury of living it so badly.” ~Paulo Coelho

May 2, 2013

Knowing Paris was one of the larger cities I was going to visit, I figured I wanted an extra day to explore. My tour with WSA didn’t start until Friday morning, but I went ahead and paid a little extra for an extra night in the hostel.

Booking my airfare to Paris was a bit of a surprise. If I haven’t shared this before, I found a flight to Paris for $98 USD. It was a 5:45 departure (literally the first plane out of Prague Ruzyne Airport that morning) but I figured $98 bucks was a steal. It wasn’t until after I clicked “confirm” on the non-refundable charge to my credit card, that I discovered it was a one way ticket.

Booking a one-way ticket back to Prague was not as cheap.

The illustrious airline I was flying on to Paris was called “Smart Wings.” Based out of the Czech Republic, this company is about as organized as a bunch of lemurs dog-piling over a cliff. Similar to well-known cheap airlines (such as Ryanair, which does not fly in or out of the Czech Republic) it offers cheap seats with no additional services. One of those additional services that was cut out was online check-in. The policy stated that you must check-in, in-person no sooner than 2 hours but no later than 90 minutes before your flight.

So as I did the math, two hours before my 5:45 flight was 3:45. Knowing that it takes 90 minutes to get to the airport, and factoring in 30 minutes in case I missed one of my two transfers, I figured I should leave the dorm by 2:00 to get there.

Packing up last night, I went to bed around 10:30, with my alarm set for 1:30 so I could get the 2:00 tram. Aaron was skyping a friend from back home and moved out to the kitchen to continue his chat. I hadn’t gone to bed this early in a while, and it took me a bit to relax and drift off.

About midnight, a loud clap of thunder jolted me awake. It was the type of clatter that echoes for several seconds and makes the window panes vibrate. We’ve been having thunderstorms on and off for the last three or four days now, but nothing this late or this violent. I could hear the rain pounding the pavement outside. Within seconds, there was a flash of light followed by another loud boom.

I tried to get back to sleep, but the storm didn’t let up. After about half an hour of laying still with my eyes closed, I gave up. It was 12:45. I knew the storm would let up eventually, but I didn’t know if “eventually” meant by 2:00. In the event that I missed one of my transfers—trams and buses could either leave early or run late due to the storm—I wasn’t sure I wanted to stand out in a thunderstorm waiting for the next one.

I pulled out my Rick Steve’s travel guide. In it, he had a section on taking taxis in Prague. He said that while Prague cabbies have a reputation for over active meters, he has personally not had any trouble using them. According to him, average rates are 29KC/ kilometer plus a pick-up fee and waiting fee. I used GoogleMaps and found the airport. By my guestimate I was looking at about 790kc (roughly $40 USD).

I waited for a bit, but the storm didn’t let up. My parents were still online, so I Skyped my Dad to see what he thought. His suggestion was just to make sure I knew the fair before I got in.

When Aaron came in the room to grab something, I asked him I could use his cell phone. He gave it to me, and I called City Taxi for a 2:30 pickup.

Now that I was awake, I spent some time going through my bag to make sure I had everything. It seemed so much lighter than when I’d gone on other trips. Either I’m getting better at this, or I’m forgetting a ton of stuff.

I wrapped my ankle to give it some support, and put on my shoes. Zipping up my jacket, I headed out to wait for the taxi. The thunder had subsided, but it was still a pouring rain. I stood in front of the building under the canopy, waiting for the taxi to pull up in the circle drive.

I saw a car out of the corner of my eye driving around the neighborhood off to the side of the dorm. It looped around behind the building. Pretty soon, it came back around and parked. It was clearly lost.

I checked my watch and saw that it was almost 2:30. The car had stalled out, and briefly restarted its engine. The sound caught my eye, and I looked back up. I could faintly make out yellow letters on the window. It was a taxi.

I walked over towards it, just as it started to pull away. Waving my hand, the driver stopped and rolled down his window.

“Dobry den,” I said, which is the formal Czech greeting for people you don’t know.

“Dobry den,” he said. “Zachary?”

“Yes,” I smiled and nodded.

He pulled out his radio and said something into it in Czech. I climbed into the back seat.

“Terminal two,” I said.

“Airport?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “How much will that cost?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His English was pretty broken. “Probably 550 minus or plus.”

“Perfect!” I said.

We started driving.

Pulling out of the parking lot, we quickly accelerated down the road. Odd instrumental music was playing on the radio and it felt like the soundtrack to some sort of action movie chase scene. As the car went faster and faster, the music felt more and more appropriate. Despite being the only vehicle on the road, we were changing lanes frequently—apparently to pass cars that weren’t there.

Suddenly, he slapped on the breaks. With wet road, I thought we were going to hydroplane right into a building. We didn’t, and he carefully pulled off a hairpin turn.

I’d been in this neighborhood before, but I had no idea it led towards the airport. I could still make out several landmarks in the skyline, so I knew we were going the right way.

Back in the first weeks I got to Prague, I’d heard a story about a guy who took a taxi and wound up being kidnapped and led to the basement of an abandoned hotel, were some men beat him and stole his money.

For whatever reason, this story chose to come to the front of my mind right now.

Within minutes, we were crossing over a bridge, just a little bit north of the Charles Bridge. Our speed still felt unusually fast. On one hand, I appreciated his dedication to get me to the airport without wasting time. On the other hand, something about it felt very ominous.

A few minutes later, we pulled off another wheel squeaking turn and were in some strange neighborhood. The streets were dark and some of the houses boarded up. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I curled my fingers around the strap of my backpack. Placing my thumb on the button of seat belt, I braced myself to be able to get out of the car in case this adventure took an odd turn.  

It crossed my mind that I really didn’t have anything to worry about. This guy had nothing to gain by kidnapping me or even mugging me. All of my money was well hidden so even if he took my wallet and my bag, I had taken precautions that I’d still have access to my accounts and all he’d get away would be some grubby clothes. But this guy worked for the second largest cab company in the Czech Republic. They had reputation, and he had an employee ID number on the window. These seemed fairly legit.

The roads of the neighborhood were paved with asphalt and looked much like suburban America. We took right turn after left turn. It didn’t feel like we were making circles, but I would have no idea how to retrace my way out of there.

Suddenly, we made a sharp turn and were back on a main road. Looking around, I instantly recognized the view; we were in the bus depot. The neighborhood had actually been a short cut instead of looping down by the theater like the buses do.

The next several miles of the drive were familiar to me. The odd “chase music” ended and an American song came on the radio. I couldn’t place it at first, but then I realized it was the Friends theme song (“I’ll be There for You.”) There were also more cars on this road. Now, the rapid lane changes made sense and we were passing everybody left and right. A few of the other cabbies were equally as aggressive, and I’m pretty sure we were playing chicken in a couple of construction zones.

We were soon on the highway heading towards the airport. A blue sign came into view that said the exit to Ruzyne was six kilometers ahead. As soon as we saw the sign, the cab driver took an exit. This definitely was not the six kilometers ahead that the sign had referred to—it might not have even been 10 meters.

We were soon on a little, two lane road in the middle of an agricultural field. There were no lights anywhere to be seen. We drove in complete darkness, and I couldn’t help but notice the radio was back to creepy instrumental music. When we came to a T-crossing in the road, we did yet another hair-pin turn and were now on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

This felt creepy again.

Within a couple of minutes, a red light popped up on the horizon. As we got closer, I could make it out as the control tower from Ruzyne airport. We turned back onto a paved road, and within just minutes, were at Terminal 2.

The driver parked the car in front of the door. Tallying up the meter, he showed it to me. “Five-hundred and fifteen.”

That was 200 crowns cheaper than I had planned on paying! Rick Steve’s encouraged tipping, especially if you felt like the price was fair. I probably over tipped him, giving him six hundred KC total (30USD) but I felt like he had done a good job—I couldn’t help but notice his English improved significantly once I gave him the tip.

As I walked through the doors of the airport, I realized that while the tram/metro/bus route to the airport is 90 minutes, a taxi ride is only 25.

I was at the airport for my 5:45 flight…and it was 2:55.