Day One. Paris, France

Travel days are odd. The disconnection with the ground undoes me a bit, and as much as I long for wings, I am perhaps better off without them. The liminal reality that happens between airports, over oceans, and across time zones messes with me to an unparalleled degree. However, this is my consistent travel experience, and I’ve decided to embrace it, making my first travel day as full and joyful as possible.

I left Minnesota at approximately 4:30 PM on December 1st and landed in Paris, France, at 7:40 AM on December 2nd, after roughly seven hours in the air and across multiple time zones.

I, unfortunately, never sleep on planes. Instead, I read the books I lined up in advance and watched The Holiday, with the unflappable Kate Winslet keeping me company. The flight was uneventful and smooth as Parisian butter.

Disembarking by bus, clearing customs, and navigating passport checks was a smooth process as well. Despite the immediate culture shock and language barrier, I managed to make my way toward the train systems, intending to take the train south into the city and disembark at the station near my hotel.

Ah yes. Best-laid plans.

Even the most thorough research cannot prepare you for the chaos of an international train station. Unfortunately, even pictorial signage wasn’t quite enough to ensure proper city connections and ticket purchases. After struggling for what felt like an eternity, I made my way back to the main floor and hailed a taxi. Immediate relief followed, with a marvelous driver who chatted with me, laughed at my pitiful attempts at French, played American pop music on the radio (to my amusement), and landed me safely at my hotel door with a cheery “Welcome to the magic of Paris, mademoiselle!” before scurrying off to save another hapless American from themselves.

It was roughly 10:00 AM, and my room was nowhere near ready. However, the kindly, elderly concierge collected my bags, offered me water, and sent me on my merry way out into the city armed with a half-charged cell phone, a tiny croissant, and my sleep-deprived wits. It was grand! I wandered, people-watched, grinned like an American fool, avoided pigeons and the metro system, and took pictures of buildings older than my country with quiet delirium.

Lunch found me at La Petite Bougnate, where the waitress gestured to a table in the corner, offered me a menu, and told me the French Onion Soup was the best in Paris (with a wink). She was not, in fact, exaggerating. Between the soup and a generous slice of avocado toast topped with salmon tartare and a soft egg, I confess I cried a few tears of joy over my first Parisian meal.

Returning to my hotel with hopes of finding my room ready, my concierge friend shook his head sadly and offered me another tiny croissant as consolation. At my request, he hailed a taxi, and I decided to make my way to the Louvre. I had purchased tickets the previous day, thinking I would go if I felt up to it. I did not, in fact, feel up to it, having been awake for 24 hours at that point. But as mentioned before, I decided to embrace the chaos and the experience.

“How do you recommend I return to the hotel?” I asked my elderly concierge friend before hopping into the taxi. He shrugged.
“Take Line 7.” His English is far better than my French, and his grin, multi-lingual.
“I’ll be lost for sure,” I laughed. He shrugged again.
“Then enjoy being lost!”
I decided to deal with that after crying over art—which I did.

The Louvre was everything they say it is, and more. I do, however, recommend engaging with the experience after more sleep than I had.
My ticket, purchased online, ushered me into the entrance just beneath the glass pyramid called the Pyramide du Louvre and into what felt like the heart of something sacred—and perhaps it is.

I made my way through an exhibition of Guillaume Lethière and another dedicated to the life and work of Gilles before wandering through the hall of ancient Roman sculptures and then following the trail of masterpieces. Gorgeous paintings stretched as far as my tired feet could carry me, culminating in a room dedicated to the Mona Lisa. And yes, I cried upon viewing that gorgeous and unassuming work of art in person for the first time.

But perhaps my favorite piece of art was what many call “the headless angel.”

Standing at the top of the Daru staircase, the Winged Victory of Samothrace is perched on a rough stone base resembling the broken bow of a ship. She seems to be only just paused in motion, perching in stone over the whole of the Louvre itself—perhaps the whole of Paris.
The monument was found on the island of Samothrace, in the sanctuary of the ‘Great Gods’ to whom people prayed for protection from the dangers of the sea. The figure, spectacularly placed in a rock niche high above the sanctuary, was designed to be seen in three-quarter view from the left—a view which highlights the billowing cloak and clinging ‘wet drapery.’ The wings, the warship, the sanctuary… all point to the goddess Nike, the messenger of victory.
To me, she felt like someone I’d met before, in a dream or a memory. I stood beneath her the longest, wishing I could better name my collection of emotions.

The return trip to my hotel loomed with more than a bit of trepidation as I made my way toward the exit, following the mass of fellow tourists speaking more languages than I could hope to decipher with my tired brain or translator app.
“Line 7,” I whispered to myself repeatedly while checking my phone for the time, the metro app, and (more alarmingly) the rapidly shrinking battery life.

The metro reminded me very much of the Underground in London—and while I haven’t traveled it in more than twenty years, the principles still applied: Purchase a ticket, board the correct train, and ride it to your stop. The process was complicated by my absence of sleep, but without too much confusion, with the help of a bemused Parisian who demonstrated how to use my ticket at the automated gate, and the guidance of a slightly more confident American (and her unsuspecting friends, whom I trailed briefly), I managed to find the proper train line, ride it to the proper stop, and make my way back to my hotel.
My friendly concierge offered me a wide grin and a high-five for not being permanently lost in Paris on my first day.

With my room finally at my disposal, a hot shower and fresh clothes, and sleep staved off for just a bit longer, I crossed the street to a tiny corner lounge and toasted to myself with a glass of wine. The bottle emerged from the basement through a literal trapdoor—a wine cave indeed.

One poem later, pajamas donned, and curtains drawn, I concluded my first day in Paris after 29.5 hours without sleep. Magic is real.

FRENCH ONION SOUP

Today, I have lost track of hours, and
perhaps the concept of time,
in general. I traveled
ahead, in order to visit the legacies of
da Vinci and a perfectly aged
glass of merlot. I ordered French Onion Soup
for lunch, and the waitress insisted
(with a wink) that it
was the best in Paris.
I believe her.
It made me cry with joy, a bit, at
exactly 11:11 AM, and
after all these hours without sleep,
I am convinced:
Magic is real
after all.