Well after months of planning we got to Paris. Everything was going perfectly until we tried to find the apartment. The was no number 52 on Quai to Grenelle. In fact, there was no even numbers on the street. Of course all the worse things started flooding through my head at this point, filling my ears with something that sounded like Doctor Who’s tardis taking off, and pulling me down to the ground and my head between my knees. Well it was probably more like I had forgot to breathe, hadn’t slept, nor ate any proper food in the past 24 hours. This is when Mom’s fainting advice with box breathing and putting your head between your knees came in very handy. (Women tend to faint in the heat in my family) So after about 2 minutes of me with doing my best impression of a dog licking its balls on a bench near the La Seine, I felt somewhat normal. And Brendon went to see if it was the next building over.
Now my impression of a dog must have been quiet convincing, since a cute little salt and pepper terrier came over to say hello. And he quickly wanted to claim me as his own…by peeing on my suitcase. But it must have brought me good luck – Brendon came back and said he found the apartment. Number 57, not 52 — they look similar, right?
After finally getting into the apartment we took a nap. (I know, I know…you’re not supposed to do that. And that’s why I’m up at 5am.)
The rest of the day we walked around our neighborhood, found the local bakeries, went walking along La Seine to the Eiffel, dodged the ‘did you lose your ring’ and ‘do you speak English” scammers, happend on the Diana make-shift memorial, ate at a local cafe, went grocery shopping, watched a bad/funny French variety show, and went to bed.
But the apartment is lovely, and the view spectacular: overlooking the Seine, and 3/4 of the Eiffel Tower, top-to-bottom, along with the lovely light show every hour from dusk to 2am. But at 5-in-the-morning, the tower is dark now, and the city is surprising quiet.
Off to make breakfast. Pictures to come on Flickr.
