Bienvenue a Versailles

Sound track of the day:
Hey kids, plug into the faithless
Maybe they're blinded
But Bennie makes them ageless
We shall survive, let us take ourselves along
Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Monday afternoon I arrived at Orly Airport which is in the suburbs of Paris. Jen and I had agreed to meet outside baggage claim and look for each other the old fashioned way. Without cell phones. I was skeptical, not for lack of faith, but for lack of practice. It’s been years since I’ve had to meet someone at an airport, other than my siblings who pick me up from SJO. At a strange airport I’ve always had the benefit of a cell phone to contact the subject of my rendezvous. Even more recently I’ve had my trusty Blackberry to guide me through the complexities of life such as airport maps, directory information. On Monday I had none of those things. Nor did I have Jen’s French number.

But here I was on a chilly Monday afternoon, surrounded by much signage in a language I hardly understood except for what my poorly abused mind could recall from 3 years of French in high school. Retrieving my baggage, I thought how quick and easy the process was compared to some recent travel experiences, but I was even further impressed by the fact that I no longer had to cross through Border control. Arriving in Dusseldorf and transferring to Paris I did not have to fill any customs or immigration documentation. I did not have to pick up my bags in Germany and have them rescanned. And, although less astounding, I didn’t have to cross through borders again in France. So when Jen told me to meet outside baggage claim after border protection I was slightly disoriented because this border protection place was missing. I simply walked from baggage claim and was outside in France. I wondered, “Am I so tired that I forgot to go through border control?”

So I waited a few minutes using the logic that if I stayed in one place eventually she would find me. Ten minutes and a cigarette later I told myself, “Lynn, that logic only works if she isn’t also following your logic by staying in one place.” It was then that I decided to start walking. I placed my bags in one of those giant shopping carts for luggage and proceeded to walk, swiveling my head left to right and occasionally around the back. I had my Asian girl radar on as I strolled slowly down the length of the airport willing myself to be as visible as possible so Jen wouldn’t miss me. I walked up on the outside length of the airport and walked down on the inside. After two laps, I was starting to think maybe I followed Jen’s directions poorly.

I sat down. I got up. I moved to a more visible section. I moved back outside. A nice man asked me if he could help me, but unless he knew my friend Jennifer and her phone number, there was nothing he could do to help me.

I strongly considered finding a computer, logging onto Facebook and messaging all of Jen’s HEC friends and telling them, “Can you call Jennifer Moon and tell her that her friend Lynn is waiting at Orly Sud outside smoking a Camel? And she’s cold.” I decided to reserve that plan for later, when I’ve absolutely run out of other ideas. I tried in vain to use my Blackberry to call Vicki and get Jen’s number, knowing full well that a) my cell phone doesn’t work internationally and b) I put the account on hold for three months. I contemplated hopping into a cab and going straight to her apartment. After all, I had her address.

Immediately I rejected the idea of trekking alone to Versailles. For starters, how stupid would it be if we both ended up in opposite ends of the trail? No, the important thing was to stick to the plan, stay where I told her I would and leave it at that. Not having mentioned the fact that we still wouldn’t have been able to reach each other via phone and I didn’t have her key, it was best to stay put. In hindsight, however, the idea of staying patiently at Orly was even further reinforced by the fact that the cab system in Ile de France isn’t quite as straight forward as the Taxi and Limousine Commission in NYC. There are Paris cabs, and there are suburban cabs, and each suburban cab has an assigned number on its license plate identifying which suburb it services. So you can’t just take any cab.

Even when Jen finally found me disoriented and lost like a stranded orphan and we searched for a cab, we were shown back and forth between two different taxi stands. A couple of numb nuts at the suburban stand told us we can get a Versailles cab at the Paris stand. After being rejected at the Paris stand we returned to our original location, at which point Jen said a few words to the two liars that I didn’t understand. But you don’t have to parlez-vous francais to be able to understand when Jen is telling someone off.