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.