Paris Day One: Flight, Arrival in Paris, Hotel (so far)

On the eve of Christmas Eve, I arrived at DFW Airport for a direct flight to Paris. I survived a near-cavity search experience with security, in which I was placed in a "puffing" machine that blew air at me until they were satisfied I possessed no weapons, and in which each item and piece of my clothing in my bags (yes, even underthings!) was lifted up in the air in front of those coming through security and lightly brushed with a little piece of lint-catching cloth. Thankfully, our country was made safer by this process, so I'm sure it was worth the high level of embarassment to me at having the entire contents of my suitcase displayed to the public. After being released to go to my gate, I was able to look around and check out DFW's new terminal D, which is used primarily for international flights:



We were soon invited to board. I noticed that the people who fly to Paris for a Christmas Eve arrival seem to have a certain je ne sais quois that one does not see on the average domestic flight . . . but perhaps I was seeing things through the rose-colored glasses of a person en route to Paris. Speaking of those glasses, I was hopeful that a handsome French man, or an American man interesting enough to fly to France alone at Christmas, might sit next to me. But I soon saw that that was not to be.

Instead, the other seats in my row and those in the row in front of me were soon filled by a family of five that included three kids under the age of six. I was fortunate enough to be seated behind the father, the only one in the group who enjoyed reclining his seat as far as it would go. He and his wife opted to place the two "older" kids in the row with me, while they attended to the extremely quiet, not-yet-talking, younger child who sat between the two of them. Trying to look on the bright side, I thought I could practice my French with the children on my row. But that was not meant to be: within twenty minutes of takeoff, the kids had become so unruly that the mother replaced her son in the back seat, leaving no one for the little girl to misbehave with on my row. Before this occurred, however, there was adventure, in that the kids pushed the flight attendant's call button, leaving me to look panicked when the annoyed attendant told me I needed to take control of the kids to keep them from doing such things, until I could gather the words to say, "They are not mine!"

Here's a brief chronology of the remainder of the arrival process:

6:55 p.m. Little French Girl says, "Je fait le Scooby Doo," and then does.

7:20 p.m. Little French Girl eats 3 bags of pretzels, then licks the salt from them off her tray table.

3:50 a.m. (I'm now on Paris time) Little French Girl reads the book "Cherche Amis" quietly and our little flying community is now calm, settling in for sleep.

4:20 a.m. I awake to find the Little French Girl's feet resting on me as she sleeps with her head in her mother's lap.

5:50 a.m. I awake to find the Little French Girl's head resting on my arm as she sleeps with her feet in her mother's lap.

9:30 a.m. Everyone begins to stir, and a surprising fresh-tasting breakfast of a croissant, blueberry yogurt and orange juice is served.

10:30 a.m. We land and, after making sure I have all of my belongings, I exit the plane quickly and speed through immigration/customs. I ask to have my passport actually stamped, and the officer acts as if doing so will sap his last bit of strength, but does it anyway. Oh, the sacrifices!

10:40 a.m. I realize as I emerge into the mass of humanity that is the arrivals area at Charles de Gaulle airport that the Nordstrom's saleswoman gave me the wrong coat. I tried on two and chose one, but she accidentally placed the other one in my bag. Argh. I then broke the first rule of foreign travel--exchanging currency at the airport (the fees are always less favorable there, but I needed cab fare and had not changed my money for euros in Dallas).

11:00 a.m. During the cab ride to the hotel, I notice how many ads are affixed to historic buildings, that graffiti in Paris seems to often be left on chimneys and that the sky is more blue than I would have expected at this time of year. We soon reached the central city, where I admired the straightness of each street, framed by the delicate and imposing buildings.

11:30 a.m. Upon reaching the hotel, I committed my first "bad American" faux pas of the trip--I failed to tip the cab driver. This was not intentional: I had forgotten to brush up on my French tipping rules, remembering only that tipping is not expected in Franch. But my guide book says that tipping cab drivers is one of the few exceptions to that rule. I feel terrible!

11:40 a.m. The check-in process was speedy and the desk attendant very nice at the Hotel Quai Voltaire. I excitedly rode in the tiny elevator to the top (5th, but actually 6th) floor:





Here's why my floor was actually the 6th, though it was called the fifth (zero is ground level):



When I first saw my room, I had forgotten about the size differential in Paris hotels (rooms are almost always--except in the most expensive places--significantly smaller than those in the U.S.), so I was a bit taken aback. But I soon grew to love my little jewel box of a room and its lovely view:



What you see standing up on the dressing table is a very nice Christmas card, signed personally by the hotel staff. In front of it is a tiny box of delicious chocolates that they left for me.







Yep, that's the Louvre Museum, just on the other side of the Seine. Beautiful, isn't it? I knew I had done the right thing in coming to Paris when I gazed at this sight through the open window and felt the cool air on my face while being warmed from below by the room's tiny radiator. I took a few minutes to relax and freshen up, then emerged from the hotel under a bright blue Paris sky to enjoy Christmas Eve, which I will write about when I return: