1st Installment: Paris is the bomb (scare)

No doubt about it, getting to Europe from western Canada is arduous.

It starts with a 4 hour drive to Vernon to park our car at Rachel’s (saves us almost $300 in parking at the airport), then a ride to Kelowna where we depart from; first to Calgary with a brief layover and then 9 hours to Charles de Gaulle airport outside Paris. Normally you would just hop the RER B train directly to the main train station at Gare du Nord in the 10th arrondissement and find your way to your Airbnb. Easy peasy.

The first fly in the ointment (an uncle Festus term) was that the RER was not available for some reason and replacement buses were provided to get us closer to the city where we could catch another RER for the final leg into the ‘city of lights’. Okay, it was a reasonable Plan B except there were a 1,000 people landing around the same time with the same scenario, so the bus line was long and it was the May Day long weekend so they were understaffed and delays were occurring. Now running late to get into our bnb we were messaging back and forth with our host to arrange to get the keys from his friend who was waiting around in his wine shop to meet us on a day that he was usually closed. It was still just at the nuisance stage and no biggie.

So, we hopped the bus and drove for 20 minutes to the station drop off point pulling into a cramped parking lot filled with buses. Second fly in the ointment turned out to be a dozen police and national security cars camped at the far end of the street filled with serious-faced armed personnel. They waved everyone back shouting commands to ‘stay away’!

Someone had left a package outside the station and it was being handled as a terrorist threat. Back in Canada the box would have been punted to the curb or if you lived in Vancouver or Winnipeg it would have been stolen because everyone needs more stuff and it saves time from taking it from somebody’s porch or their garage.

Anyways a thousand people were milling around a parking lot, tired and hungry (one person fainted and paramedics were dispatched) while we waited for the bomb squad to show up and do their thing. Well, they must have been taking in a show at the Follies Bergère and then belted back a couple of espressos because they took over an hour to show up and then calmly kicked the offending cardboard a few times, scratched their chins, and determined it was just cousin Gerald’s forgotten Teemu package of dog toys that he had put down on the sidewalk while he was Facetiming his grand-mère in the old folks home.

“Okay folks, there’s nothing to see here. Just move along” and the authorities pulled out of the parking lot on their way to the closest croissant shop. We all paused briefly, looking around at each other and then made a mad rush through the station on our way to the station platform! It was mayhem as the stampede pushed and shoved their way through the two access doors leading into the marshalling area. Shoes were lost, babies were tossed in the air, and Americans tried to bully their way to the front in the melee (not on my watch Bubba). Seniors were some of the worst offenders as their meds were wearing off and incontinence was only minutes away so they used their walkers as weapons to reach for the front of the lines. ‘Back off grandpa, this ain’t Dennys’.

Whew disaster averted. Heavily jetlagged Carol and I staked our place at the edge of the platform with an ever-increasing phalanx of newly-arrived passengers jostling in behind us. Tempers were burbling to the surface and you could see people picking sides in case there was a Gangs of New York moment. Local Frenchies on one team against the rest of the world on the other. I even saw a young Korean influencer grab for her/him/ high heel to defend her/him’s space. Asian influencers are everywhere in Paris with many in costume. Annoying as it might seem, it’s a way to monetize their travel experience and not much different than what many tourists do when posing in front of all the iconic monuments.

After another 40 minutes the loudspeaker belted out to ‘stand back from the edge’ as the train was finally arriving. It pulled in at full speed and the automated doors sprang open engulfing the multitude. We were packed tighter than a sumo wrestler’s belt; and there were still 9 more stops until we would reach our destination. Each stop was teeming with would-be riders who had been building up as three trains had been held back waiting for the package police to give the ‘all clear.’ It was the same scenario at each of the stops with a few of the most determined commuters making their way into the metal sardine can squeezing us tighter than a gnat’s arse (British euphemism).

As uncomfortable as it might sound it was a surreal experience bonding us (figuratively and literally) into a small community, all with the same goal, facing the same hardship. Standing cheek to cheek (both ways) for another 20 minutes it was impossible to assume the normal commuter position of not making eye contact because there was no empty area to turn your gaze. Then you had the mix of cultures of the arriving travelers from around the globe with luggage in tow taking up valuable space, combined with the rural immigrants who were on their way to work or shopping, mostly made up of sub-Saharans, north Africans, and Turks and Moroccans. Each culture with their own scent, and accents, and colorful clothing and head gear made for a microcosm of what diverse French culture is made up of.

When we were finally disgorged into Gare du Nord which is the busiest station in France we made our way to the streets outside… ‘we made it’! The next leg was to find the rendezvous point for the key exchange which after a brief hiccup had us heading to our apartment with backpacks on and luggage in tow. Upon making it to the outside of the seven story facade we used our security key and walked across the courtyard to the next security point and entered into the small lobby facing the typical Parisien elevator which we had been told in advance was under repair (for the first time in 5 years apparently) so we pivoted to the stairway and carried our wheelie bags up the first flight of stairs. Back in 2019, when we were more robust, we had stayed in an 1850s Haussman building which had no elevator, on the 7th floor. It was 91 steps to the room, which had been our previous benchmark for stairs. Well, being on the top floor again I of course counted each step as we wheezed our way up the circular path. Older now, with a myriad of ailments, and very jetlagged, we were forced to stop twice on our hike to the top (120 stairs). Upon opening the door we had a cursory look at our new home away from home and crashed onto the bed exhausted. I will cover the description of the studio at a later date but the owner had cautioned us in advance not to step on the 3 spots on the floor that were delineated by masking tape so that our feet wouldn’t plunge through the neighbor’s ceiling. It’s supposed to be an adventure, and it is.

More to come at a later date. Au revoir from Paree.