Happy Independence Day to all my friends in the states!  Wish I could be there to celebrate with you all!

So, if you’ve read the previous post, you’ll know that I am attending the EAMA program in Paris this month.  I still don’t seem to know much about what it is that I’m doing here, but that doesn’t make the trip any less entertaining.  This being my second excursion to the European continent, I knew basically what to expect in my travels:  grumpy people, long plane flight, no food, and an arrival in a city that I knew nothing about other than I couldn’t speak their language and their police officers have unprecedented search seizure capabilities.  I’m happy to report, however, that very few of these from my past experiences came to light.

I began my journey at 6am in Tempe, Arizona, where my fantastic roommate informed me that he was buying me breakfast and taking me to the airport.  We were going to go to a place up the street called the Sunrise Cafe, but they were not open at the time they were supposed to be.  So, we ended up at IHOP (classy, I know).  Here, we had the weirdest waitress I have ever encountered.  Her name was Brittani, which she told us repeatedly each time she visited our table, in some of the most awkward places you could find in a typically conversation with a waitress.  Her sentences seemed to never really finish, but rather would just stop, or fade away into the ether.  To complement this, her sentences never would ever start, just kind of… fade in like you were turning up the volume on the radio.  To add to this unique style of talking, the word “yay” was clearly audible throughout her sentences, emphasized by length and a higher frequency, and usually not coming in a place where one would say “yay.”

Regardless, we ate, and I was taken to the airport.  I attempted to check into the Northwest terminal, but I was quickly informed by the computer that this would not be possible, though it didn’t tell me why.  I progressed to the attendant at the counter and handed her my itinerary from my travel agent.  She typed up something on the computer and read me my schedule:  Phoenix to Minneapolis, and then Charlotte to Paris.  My response was simply, “how am I getting from Minneapolis to Charlotte?”  This schedule did not match the travel agent’s schedule, and I wasn’t about to get stuck trying to figure out how to change airports in a random part of the country.  Thankfully, the attendant was more than willing to quickly make my bording pass agree with what my travel agent had created, and I was on my way.

The flight to Minneapolis was short.  I was sitting next to a man named Dale and someone who I assumed was his wife, though she looked much older than him (I can’t remember her name for the life of me because it was an uncommon German name).  Dale was a nice guy, admittedly naive about pretty much everything, but very interested in anything and everything we talked about.  His “wife” would occasionally jump into the conversation to say something about Saltzburg, or alcohol.  Arriving in Minneapolis, I parted ways with my “single-serving friends” and proceeded to sprint to my next flight which was beginning to board at about the time my first flight landed.  This, apparently was not the case, because not only was the flight time 30 minutes later than what was listed on my itinerary, it had been delayed an additional hour.  So, I proceeded to find a place to hunker down and kill some time.

The location of choice was against a wall next to this younger lady whom was obviously in the same situation I was.  I proceeded to lean against the wall to slide down and almost fell right through it:  it was not a real wall apparently.  This of course made the younger lady laugh, and I embarrassingly wandered away to find some coffee.  This was my first time tasting Caribou Coffee, which is almost as bad as Starbucks, but not entirely.  I’m not sure what they put in my mocha, but it wasn’t chocolate, nor do I think they used real milk, but it gave me a small boost, and returned to my gate.

The young lady was still there, and she looked up at me and said, “gonna try that again?”  I laughed and introduced myself.  We talked for the next 40 minutes or so, and I learned that her name was Courtney, she was headed to Rome, and just graduated from a school in Iowa (can’t remember the name) and was planning on heading into AmeriCore.  We then began to board, and Courtney and I were separated by about 6 rows, so there would be no more banter between us.  I instead was seated next to two older women (Barbara and Blythe) whom were traveling to Europe for the first time.  They weren’t interested in talking…  so the 8.5 hour flight was not nearly as enthralling as it could have been.  I did find it mildly entertaining that I was unable to get my tray table to lay completely flat because my legs were too long, and that when the guy in front of my put his seat back, I literally could not move any part of my body below the waist.  Six cups of water, a pasta dinner and four packs of peanuts later we landed in Paris.

This is where the true excitement starts!  After going through passport checks and finding my baggage, I pulled out the directions to get to my living quarters for the month and proceeded to look for something called the RER A, which is this weird hybrid of electric train on heavy rail tracks.  Of course, there were signs to taxis, busses, departures, arrivals, baggage claim, delis, museums, but there were no signs where one would expect them to be for this train, so I got in line at the information desk.  The lady promptly informed me to make a right and follow…  the signs!  Yes, once you figured out which direction you were supposed to be going, there were signs everywhere!  The walk to the train was about 5 minutes, and I learned very quickly that, despite my attempts to pack lightly, my bag was still exceedingly heavy.  The train station looked much like a mall, with an open pavilion and escalators which all went in the wrong direction.  There was no noticeable way to get to the bottom floor to buy a ticket:  no stairs, not downward escalator, no public elevator.  I instead camped outside a staff elevator for about 5 minutes before someone came out of it and I leaped inside and took it to the ground floor.

This next process sucked.  All the ticket machines were automated, so I got in line and made my way up to pay my fair.  The first machine I went to seemed simple enough.  I put it in English, went to purchase one ticket and pay with my card.  The machine, however, decided this was not a good idea.  It did not like either of my cards, and decided to even switch offline, which undoubtedly pissed off everyone behind me in line.  So, I stepped to my right and tried the next machine.  Same thing happened.  Stepped to the right again for a third machine.  This time, I grabbed the technician that was wandering around to help people, and made him get me a ticket.  This time everything worked, card and all.  Great…

On to Paris.  The train ride was uneventful, aside from the woman from Chicago blocking the entire aisle with her huge suitcase and wondering why people were getting annoyed with her when the tried to get by.  I found my location without much of a problem and then tried to find me room.  Of course, no one here had ever heard of EAMA, so trying to located the check in was difficult.  I was sent one place, sent to another place, and then sent to a third place, all the while my bag is getting more and more heavy.  This was also about my 27th waking hour, so I was in no mood for this.  Anyway, found the room, laid everything out, and promptly fell asleep.  First day in Paris down!