My first view of Paris, soaring at an altitude of five thousand feet, still left me awestruck at its massive sprawl and lack of skyscrapers. As the plane came around lining up with the runway, my eyes gazed upon a magnificent sentry standing guard over it's loyal subjects, announcing my arrival into this city, so steeped in history, I cannot wait to walk its narrow streets with flowers adorning its every building, a city so entrenched in a culture that has existed much longer than one can imagine, yet the trend setters of fashion and haute cuisine worldwide. As my eyes gaze upon the Eiffel Tower, I feel that little smile of satisfaction beginning to emerge. Thoughts swirling, will I see the Lourve, Notre Dame and the Arc d'Triomphe? Will I have the time to walk in the footsteps of the masters, sit in the small sidewalk cafes, enjoy and breathe in the wonders of this city and suddenly, "Madame, Monsieur, Ladies and Gentlemen, please bring your seats to their upright positions, prepare for landing."
Back in the real world, collecting my belongings, trying to stretch the legs, thoughts again swirl, "will I be able to walk once I try to stand up?, Will that little pain in the butt kid that kick my seat for the better part of this night flight understand just how lucky he is. At one point, as I tried to get comfortable, his continual thumping of my seat back, brought thoughts of breaking the little shit's feet off at the ankles. Amazing, what torture will do to the mind! This kid could make a hardcore spy spill his guts!
Working most of my adult life in guest service orientated businesses, the robotic like attitudes of the passport checkpoint employees somewhat bothered me. Not even a bonjour for God's sake, they would be a perfect fit to work at any Motor Vehicle Department back in the States, "You filled out your form in the wrong color ink, not acceptable." My guess, these people in their adolescent years, thrived on pissing off people with their quirky irritating little habit, much like seat thumper from the previous evening's flight. At one point during the flight, I think I was dreaming about some little kid, sitting at the counter in Fred's News, swing his feet into the wall under the counter at the same slow methodical rate as the irritating, old enough to know better, spoiled brat behind me. I also realized why his mother was sitting behind him!
Riding through the country side, traffic, speeding by at warp speed, the landscape in this part of France reminds me of southern New England. It is a dreary day, a tad bit chilly (remember I have just arrived from ninety plus humid degrees), but the heart is warm and excited, "you're in Paris for God's sake!"
One cool afternoon as we stroll along the narrow streets and tree-lined walkways running parallel to the Seine, hunger pains bring us to one of the numerous cafes lining the boulevards. Quickly finding a seat, our waiter, "Bonjour?" His quick smile but questioning eyes makes me realize with the throngs of visitors from around the world, he's testing the language skills from the get go. "Bonjour, we speak English and French so either is okay!" His broad smile suggests it is an opportunity for him to hone his English. The rain shower starting to subside, but for us it doesn't matter, protection from the elements is afforded by a lovely awning, overshadowing the multitude of tiny tables lining the sidewalk. Two older women along side drinking coffee, continuous chatter and laughter suggest they too are enjoying the Paris scene. Our waiter is for the most part jovial, albeit slow. For us it doesn't matter, we're in Paris, enjoying a chance for mother and son to spend a great time together, something that doesn't happen nearly enough! We notice our waiter scanning the table once occupied by the two older women. His pleasant smile turning to an angry frown suggests something is amiss. Turning to us,"did you see them leave?" "No monsieur, why?" we ask. Seems the two women stiffed the guy! Ah yes, street-wise old ladies, isn't Paris wonderful?
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