European Vacation: Wrap it up, Kane!

Posting the tales of my summer vacay has been taking longer than the vacation itself did, and is putting me into almost as much debt since I can't do paying work when I'm doing this, so I'm combining the last two stops in one (hopefully) brief post.

Interlude: Stopover in Paris

Somehow due to the f being a student my being a freelancer both of us having lived in super expensivo NYC for years and hence now having no savings to speak of general lack of good planning, by the time we had a six-hour layover in Paris, we were out of cash and our only functioning source of funds was a cash advance from my American Express card.

I know: that was really dumb.

Backing up a bit, we arrived in gay Paree by train with six hours to burn before our Chunnel train to London. First we had to find a tourist office and get cash, which proved to be extremely challenging. The main impression we got in our first frustrating hour or two there was that Paris hates you and does not want you to find their tourist office or bureau du change. Also, you are a stupide American for even trying.

After making our way to a second train station with our bags in tow, the change office didn't take American Express, our other cards were not working, and we could not find the tourist office to save our lives. But first things first: I needed to use les toilettes. Only problem was the incomprehensible map of the multi-level train station seemed to be trying to show all floors of the station at once in some sort of postmodern cross- section that we didn't understand as stupide Americans. I approached a uniformed employee: "Perdon. Ou est les toilettes?" Yay, I asked for something in baby French!

Be warned that when you ask something in French, even if your pronunciation makes it clear you have no idea what you're doing, you may be punished with an answer in French. I got a rapid, extensive answer of jibber jabber from this blonde young woman. I resisted letting my jaw go slack, nodded solemnly, and watched her gestures. I departed with a musical "Merci!" and walked in the direction she pointed, hoping she didn't watch me for too long.

I was getting mad at Paris. Why was it so hard to do everything here? Going up the escalators, determination kicked in: I WILL FIND LES TOILETTES! And I did. And it cost 50 cents to get in. I didn't know if I had it and was already trying to imagine where else I could leave my mark on Paris, but by some miracle I had the 50 cents. You'd think for 50 Euro cents a pop you'd get a plush WC, but: not so much! My stall had a watebasket overflowing with the most unseemly waste, almost as if women had fought back for having to pay by being filthy slobs. I felt bad for the attendant breathing in the fumes all day, since only the most desperate of folk would pay to get in there.

Alors. I set up camp next to an abandoned information booth while the fiance set off to attempt finding the tourist office so they could direct us to an American Express office. He returned, urgent: "Please tell me you have one- Euro fifty." There was only one American Express office in the city, and I had to take the Metro there. Pooling our change together, we just had one-fifty, just enough for one ticket. He showed me a little subway map with numerous metro lines curling around and intesecting each other it looked like a multicolored bowl of spaghetti, with my destination circled. Off I set on my mission: I better not fail or we had no way to get to the third train station where we'd catch the Chunnel train.

I got out at the Opera House stop and asked at a change office how to find the AmEx office: it was just behind the Opera House. Did you know that in Paris, "just behind the Opera House" means "to the left side of the Opera House"? I didn't know that until traversing six or seven streets just behind the Opera House. But I found the AmEx, and its long, rarely-moving line.

All told, my errand took two hours and I got on the wrong train back to the fiance, having to ask for help and growing ever more irritated. There would be no quick visit to the Art Nouveau museum today. We headed back into the labyrinthine Metro to go to the Chunnel station, and the f told me about the woman who had blatantly cut him on line at the tourist office when he was next up to the window. He'd said, "Excuse me," then "EXCUSE ME," to no avail and finally walked up, tapped her on the shoulder, and pointed back at the line, tersely explaining the concept of lines while claiming his place at the window. Enough with the line-cutters already.

At last we made it to the Chunnel waiting area, official British soil! What a relief it was to speak-a the language. We were in no hurry to return to Paris.

London

London was comfortingly familiar, and by the time we got there we were burnt out on sightseeing (as illustrated above).

 Here, our conveniently located but rather mature hotel had the weirdest bed setup of all.

It also had this ye olden contraption in the closet for easier access to jumpers and trousers.

These digs were multiple steps down from the Barcelona accomodations, but the price was right. Me: I kinda don't want to touch this carpet with my feet." Fiance: "I kinda don't wanna touch this hotel with my anything."

The reason we'd stuck around Europe so long was finally upon us: My Bloody Valentine reunited to play at the historic Roundhouse Theater. The crowd was all 30- and 40-something guys with music boners. It was one of the nerdiest displays of geeky delight I've ever witnessed--and I've been to a Rush concert.

The concert was fantastic. Well, all except the last fifteen minutes or so when the band launched a massive audio assault you could actually feel like an earthquake. When it became clear this was going to continue on more than a minute, some people started to leave. You know, I don't need that, and I don't believe anyone like Pitchfork Media who claimed the end of the show was enjoyable. It was like some challenge to the cowd: take this punishment! I, too, bowed out early. Outside I caught the eye of another girlfriend who'd escaped, and we exchanged a look of total understanding. Guys, right?  

The next night, our last night of the trip, we saw Radiohead at Victoria Park. Here's some folks on a roof watching the crowd head from the tube to the park.

Radiohead was incredible. This time the crowd was all 20- and 30- somethings, a more proportionate amount of girls, and it was more ecstatic than the crowd the night before, with lots of singing along.

As the light drained from the day, a plane passed above the stage and I dreaded going home. Radiohead were amazing as always. Kids danced unselfconscious and goofy like that scene from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

After the show, a lot of fellows didnt' seem to understand how to use the portable loos.

And the streets were overtaken by satisfied music fans.

We waited out some of it in a fenced-off part of the park, with one last impromptu mini-picnic of bread and a bit of Marks & Spencer mature cheddar.

Then, after rejoining the unrelenting stream of people, as the crowd narrowed and we were routed around by gates toward the tube, one final resistance against those who attempted cut in front of us: the f and I joined arms to block them and I turned back to inform, "It's called a line." We should bring flyers explaining queues next time.

Right then!  More than a month after returning back to American soil (though I still haven't returned to my Louisiana routine, and that's OK) that finally brings us to the end of the Euro trip.

 

Comments

[Kevin]

I'm a little sad now.

[Jules]

Awesome that you saw Radiohead!!!

France sounds like it was a nightmare!

[Kartek]

What is up with all the line cutting? I experienced a bunch of that the last time I was in Heathrow airport and then at Newark airport by a crazy German who was convinced he and his family should be the first person on a very long line. Of course me and a bunch of other peeps blocked his ass.

[roopa]

When I was in the UK last fall, not a single good band played there. Lucky you.

PS. Photobooth pics coming soon.

[Lioux]

France can suck it!

Too bad you couldn't speak Freedom fluently.

RADIOHEAD®™©™ AND MY BLOODY VALENTINE®™©™?!?!!!

Bitch.

[Elizabeth]

Ah, I'm sorry you didn't get to enjoy Paris. You must go back, really. I loved it and everyone was nice to me, despite the anti-everyone who isn't French rumours.

I'm so bummed that MBV is going to be playing here and NO ONE will go with me. Y'all need to move back just so I have someone to go to shows with.

[Ellen]

When I was in Prague in the spring I had my share of line-cutters to deal with. In the tiny breakfast room of our crappy hotel, most people did not seem to know how to wait their turn at breakfast bar. There was a lot of elbowing and reaching across. But nobody seemed to mind, except me.

I agree with Elizabeth that you should give Paris another try sometime. I loved it there too, and would certainly go back. I didn't encounter the rudeness people always talk about.

[Apollo]

How awesome was the Radiohead light show? It looks like the same setup they had in Atlanta.

[jason]

Ohh...despite it all, I'm still jealous of your time in Paris.
(though you do make me doubt my jealousy there with that whole paying to pee thing. Barbaric.)

And I know someone who will be even more jealous of your time seeing My Bloody Valentine.

[meanieT]

Did Americans invent "waiting in line"? Thanks again, USA! USA! USA! USA!

[Alienwhere]

I love the word "labyrinthine". Thanks for injecting it into my day.

[suntawrites]

Radiohead?? Fantastic!
Lack of planning? Nonsense! You did great!
And no no no - don't wrap it up yet! I am enjoying these posts so much! :)