Amsterdam to Paris

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Entry

  Paris, France
Friday, May 23, 2008

My day began early but relaxed, as I had packed the night before. Only my leather daypack was out on the balcony to air out as it had gathered the skunky odor of the coffee shops. I checked out at the desk and asked for Osam. The clerk said he was sleeping but he would wake him if I chose. I only wanted to thank him, and say goodbye, but I gave my message to the clerk and begged off disturbing Osam. I returned to my room to await my shuttle. The phone rang about 15 minutes later. It was Osam, emotional and unwilling to meet me face to face. He said he did not want to say goodbye, that I should reconsider and stay longer, that I was *special* to him and that I warmed his heart each moment he saw me. He said my smile was my secret, and to never stop smiling. He begged me to return, in fact, extracted a promise from me that I would return, and in response, offered me a room any time, even if the hotel was booked. ( I wondered if her meant *his* room...LOL!) He said he could not face me nor could he watch me leave as he was too emotional and could not control his tears. I didn't know what to say, except to thank him, wish him well and wonder about his emotional nature, vs. hangover or pompous flattery. I guess with all the sodas and candy he crammed into my backpack each morning as I began each day, and with the special delivery of an enormous bouquet of flowers to my room, I tended to believe the Kenyan really did have a crush on me. He said he would miss our hour-long conversations at the end of each day, my cheerful countenance and that I has stolen his heart and he could not bear to see me go. He begged me to come back soon and to keep in touch by email. I was about to promise anything to stop the man's tears over my phone. Wow. I was overwhelmed myself!

I set off the metal detector in security at the airport and got a thorough patting down and feeling up by a female security guard. She was *very* thorough, even going underneath my bra and into the cavernous folds of my breast and cleavage to uproots contraband or metal. Hmm. The flight was way behind schedule and I feared missing my connection in Munich. I had to run, as we arrived so late I had only 8 minutes to get aboard the flight, 33 gates away from where I stood. Yep, I ran. Landing in Paris it was one of the worst landings I have ever encountered. I nearly bit my tongue off with the slamming jolt. From what I could tell, there was simply no reason for this. The sun was shining, the sky was clear and we were all looking at each other over the smack down we had just experienced. I found the trains and bought touriste passes for Brian and me. They were expensive and the woman behind the window was less than helpful when I didn't understand her French. She kept yelling the word "backward" at me, when what she meant was to turn my ticket over and sign the back. I ruined the ticket-folder in my efforts to appease this witch and she disgustedly handed me another folder throwing up her arms, unable to control her negativity. I had enough of her and I abruptly grabbed the new folder and decided to figure it out myself, which I did easily and without her shouting "backward!" at me anymore. She acted as if I were the stupidest creature on the planet. She should consider another line of work if she doesn't have the patience for tourists.

I took the RER into Paris where I transferred to line 9 and on to Trocadero. There she was, the Eiffel tower, only 200 meters from me as I emerged from the metro station. I was taken aback by my proximity to the great landmark, and I stood dumbfounded and breathless. Gathering my wits, I looked around and instantly saw my hotel marquis. I was greeted politely but given no assistance in schlepping my bags to my tiny room. Now all I had to do was wait for Brian.

I walked to Trocadero and viewed the tower, disappointed that there was construction in front of it and it obscured the bottom. Returning to my room, I elevated my swollen feet and ate the remaining soggy pizza in my tote bag, that I had the night before in Amsterdam. I still had some of Osam's candy, but was not in the mood for sweets at that time. I decided to go out and buy some wine and food for Brian, knowing he would be hungry and tired when he arrived. I found a small grocers that was just closing, and I rushed in to buy some Bordeaux, but found nothing suitable for him to eat. They were pressuring me to make my decision and finish so they could close the store, so I paid for the wine and left. Walking a bit further down Raymond Pontcare', I spotted a small pizza shop and discovered that they would remain open until 11 pm. Bri should be here about that time, so I kept mindful of the location and returned home for another 2 hours to wait. When I returned, I was having difficulty communicating to the pizza baker that I wanted cheese and ham, but no mushrooms, completely forgetting the word "champignon" and unable to describe a mushroom by gesturing.. Another customer came to my rescue, a train-stopping gorgeous man, about 30, with shocking dark hair, dark eyes and one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen in my life. I know I stared at him as he offered his assistance, me, blinking like a schoolgirl and barely able to communicate whatever I was thinking. He kindly told the pizza baker to forego the mushrooms and bid me farewell as his pizza was done, and I awaited mine. I watched him walk away, grateful for my Brian, but envious of his youth and beauty, completely beyond my reach. Or not so! As the baker boxed my pizza, I bought a blood-orange fanta and began the three block walk back to the hotel when I heard, "Madame! Madame!" from somewhere just behind me. I stopped and turned around, and there was trainstopper, smiling and hurrying to catch up to me. He still had his unopened pizza box in his hand. He said that he missed the company of English speaking women and (originally from Montreal) spent 4 years in the USA which he loved. He asked what I was doing in Paris and I told him I was vacationing, and that one of my best childhood friends lived here. I told him I try to get to Paris at least once a year, sometimes twice, to which his expressive eyebrows disappeared into his voluptuous hairline! He said, "So I hate to eat alone and my apartment is just right here," as he gestured directly across the street. I apologized and told him that I had plans, but he persisted, "Please, you are here for a few days, yes? Come and ring my bell and visit me. I am the third button from the top," and he pointed to the panel on the side of his door. Oh be still my heart! this hunkalicious dark stranger wanted me to call on him!!! My ego went over the moon with that one!

Walking about 3 feet above the sidewalk, I returned to my hotel and asked the night clerk for a wine opener. He lent me his own personal one and asked that I return it immediately. I went up to the room, put the pizza on the ottoman, opened the bottle and headed back down to the clerk. As soon as the elevator doors opened on the main floor, I was greeted by the smiling face of the only man I love. I nearly bashed into him as I impatiently waited for the elevator doors to open. I let out a loud squeal and embraced my love with laughter and gratitude. I nearly threw the wine opener back at the clerk, said a quick, badly-pronounced merci boucou and squished myself into the elevator to take my Brian up to our room. He was so grateful for the pizza and wine. The only thing missing was candles...oh well. They were burning inside each of us!

I told him about hunkalicious and he laughingly agreed that I still had my magic, in spite of the ravages of middle age and weight. Hee hee! We peeked out the window at the glorious Eiffel tower, in her golden, nighttime splendor and were soon asleep in each others arms.

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