Je suis là! (I’m here!)

My flight here was delayed in New York, and we ended up landing an hour later in Paris this morning. That said, Air France was lovely as always. (Like I’m ever going to complain when they routinely offer champagne at the start of service? You all know me better than that.

Let me back up. I boarded the plane at EWR, momentarily forgetting it was Air France. So when the flight attendant asked me if I knew what seat I was assigned, I replied, “Yes, 19L” in English. English! What? What the hell was wrong with me? I mentally berated myself as I found my way to my row. I needed to get into my French head, pronto! Maintenant!

To update you – a lot has happened in my life since I blogged in December 2024. I was already a French tutor in December, but in addition, I became a French teacher at the local community college in my home town. (Again, I refer you to January 2022 to see just how far I’ve come with the French language.) I absolutely LOVE teaching, so I also became certified to teach English as a second language (ESL) via the CELTA (Cambridge University) system – a system whose training is notoriously wicked – but I did it, and did so with distinction. Somehow.

Back to the plane, and my faux pas.

A different flight attendant came by to take drink and dinner orders. I requested du champagne (in French, bien sûr), and she looked at me twice. I could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of me. Then I thanked her, in French. (I was nothing if not determined.) This is when I believe she quizzed me… asking me first if I also wanted wine with my meal. That was a “oui.” Rouge ou blanc? Would I say blahnk, or blahn? You all know I said blahn! She smiled, and from that point on, she spoke to me only in French. Not that we had any lengthy dialogue, but I knew I’d passed.

Dinner was delicious. Yes, I’m serious. The chicken dish was so tasty, I sopped up all the sauce with my bread as I watched a really fun French movie about art/antiquities and smugglers. (There were subtitles – I have to be honest. No, I cannot follow movie dialogue in French without them. Yet.)

Movie: Treasure Hunters on the tracks of Khufu (I recommend the film!)

During the flight, I enjoyed the periodic captain and cabin announcements in French, but I will say nothing is more charming than English spoken with a French accent. So, I was equally attentive to the messages repeated in English – checking my understanding.

After the movie, I slept. Not a lot, but I slept. That is always the goal. As we descended, one of my seat mates sprayed himself in cologne. It was pleasant enough, but I was glad we were landing because I felt a bit like I was eating it.

As soon as we touched down, calming music began playing in the cabin. I wondered if it would work. People tend to jump up and clutter the aisle as if their life depended on it. Funny thing is, when their life actually DOES depend on it – they don’t move. Have you ever seen footage of people looking in bins and taking their time grabbing their phones when the plane is smoking? OMG. LEAVE it! People, someone behind you won’t survive because you had to have your phone? The retired flight attendant in me gets triggered sometimes. I only flew for 2 years, but the training sticks.

Amazingly, deplaning in Paris was super quick. I have no idea why, but we moved.

I had to remind myself we landed at Terminal 2E at CDG, meaning I would have to take a quick train to the other terminal to collect my baggage and get into the taxi queue.

I followed the signs for “baggage,” and found my way downstairs where the trains were. I just didn’t know which one, because there were two. I looked for a sign when a guy in uniform appeared. He greeted me with, “Are you here to meet your French husband?” I was so confused, so I answered him with a straight face. I forgot I was in Paris. (I had just gotten off a red-eye flight!) He was sweet. No? You don’t have a French husband? But you speak French so well, he said, as he put his hand over his heart. (You gotta’ give him points, right? Charming as all hell, and he’s an airport employee?) He said it had been his pleasure to meet me, and welcome me to Paris. And, yes, he did finally direct me to the right train.

My bag is easy to spot on the carousel. And whenever I travel, I’m grateful I went with the fun design.

I arrived at the other terminal and reacquainted myself with the logistics. I immediately looked for the “TAXI” signs on the floor and began following them as I always do, when a man approached asking if I needed a taxi. (I know the drill.) They’re not supposed to do this. They do it anyway because the police aren’t there 24/7. There is a set fee for airport rides into the city. It’s 56 euros. Period. So this guy tells me the taxis are not where I was going, that I should follow him to get a taxi. Um, no. He asked me if I spoke French or English (he was prepared), I told him I speak BOTH, and abruptly stopped walking, saying, “I am going to the taxi queue, not with you.” He thanked me and walked away looking for his next victim.

It happens. They act like they’re helping you. They’re not. The taxi queue is very well organized here. You just walk outside and get in line to be assigned to a legit taxi.

I gave my driver the address dans le 4ème arrondissement, and we were off. We both laughed when I said it was Sunday – because I was wrong. That’s when I left New York. It was definitely Monday morning. He shared that he had once lived in NJ, and had visited a few other States, and was planning a return visit next year – New York being his favorite!

You may recall this is where I enjoy practicing my French the most – with the cabbies. They’re always surprised when an American speaks French – and they always say so.

We arrived to find there is construction going on around the apartment, but all was manageable. After dropping by bags off in the vestibule the apartment building, I picked up my key at the local florist by arriving and asking for “Morgane,” saying there should be a package for me. I felt like I was a character in a Bond movie. Picking up the key is always (!) an unusual, clandestine experience.

I opened the massive and familiar red door still missing its knob, and Luigi started howling! He was beyond excited to see me. Beyond! He came running! He’s been on my lap no matter where I sit. I was walking around the apartment holding him like a baby.

On that note… another bit of news to share is that my daughter had a healthy baby boy in June. Henry. (Henri!) He’s a sweet boy, and his arrival has filled my heart. He and his parents are doing well. And yes, you know I will bring something home for him from Paris – his Mimi’s favorite place on Earth. (My daughter gave me the grandmother name, and I think it’s perfect.)

Oh! I packed light – for me. I am determined this trip to not buy a suitcase for the return home. I have my usual large case, and a matching small carry-on wheelie. Both were less than half-packed on purpose – you know, in case I buy a thing or two whilst here.

What?

Luigi has already been on my bed and in both suitcases. And OMG he’s hopped over the rail already on the terrace much to my ever-loving horror, but I am at this point resigned to it. He’s a Parisian rooftop cat.

I changed my clothes and went to the grocery store, which is half a block away. Nathalie had texted telling me to open any and all drawers and use/take/eat whatever I wanted. Talk about hospitality! I did indulge in a Nespresso, but bought a pack for the house at the store to keep the family drawer stocked. I bought some rosé (which is wildly popular here), salad stuff, mayonnaise with Dijon (Maille – my fave!), cheese, yogurt, and my first two packs of Haribo “Orangina” gummies. It’s a new tradition. They weigh my suitcase down, but I don’t care. They’re not available in the U.S. (I know because I called and asked.)

I unpacked the groceries and went out again to hit my local favorite boulangerie – the one with no name. And omg, they’re closed for the month. Ça arrive. It happens. I made my way to Manon, another boulangerie near Saint Paul, and almost walked past it because they’ve completely remodeled. Honestly, I don’t like it. It felt backwards! I ‘suffered’ through the rearranged entry and made my way to the front. Of course I ordered “une tradition,” and “un pain au raisin” as I always do upon arrival.

Once home, I mixed up some tuna and started pulling apart the baguette, opening the Brie for it to reach room temp. All 3 terrace windows are open, and the sounds of the street (occasional sirens) drift in and fill my senses.

I checked in with Nathalie and my friend Jennifer around the corner, but I have no plans. None. I want to chill and see art. And hang with Luigi.

But I will start looking to see what expositions are happening. Nathalie reminded me a lot of national museums are closed on Tuesdays – not the Parisian ones.

August is chill and a lot of Parisians do go away and close up shop. Their signs on the door are always sweet and thankful to customers.