Learning to love Paris, part 1

France was not easy to love, initially. Oh, I suppose that my first glimpse was positive, seeing the vibrant countryside as we flew in from the dusty Luton airport. Unlike the small, oddly shaped fields in England which reminded me of a speckled paint-by-numbers or mosaic, these fields were vast and golden-green, reminding me of fields in America. Our plane touched down early, and it seemed we had an auspicious start to our stay.

But fate had other plans. We were welcomed in true French style at the end of a strike. The airport as a whole seemed undermanned, and those there seemed sour and unhappy to be there. We were rushed through customs, and the official didn't even bother stamping our passports. Then we waited for our lone checked item -- a small umbrella stroller. Minutes passed, and we watched the other passengers grab their luggage and leave. And still no sign of our stroller. Just when we were beginning to worry, we noticed that the only other passengers left were those with young children -- they were waiting for their strollers too. Finally, after several minutes, once the sky was nearly dark, our stroller was finally brought in from the plane. We quickly grabbed it and hurried to an ATM to exchange some euros and purchase train tickets.

Of course, these simple tasks took several attempts. Credit cards were denied. Confusing instructions were given. We were able to get cash from the ATM but were never able to get the ticket machine to work. We panicked and joined everyone else in the Information line. After a few minutes, they informed us that due to a strike, we didn't need tickets to ride the train into Paris. So we hurried to catch the train. On our way down the escalator, we saw the second-to-last train leave without us.

And then we waited. And waited. And waited. And another train did come. We got on and continued to wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, at 10:43, the train departed, stopping at every little station between the airport and the depot. Once we were at the depot, we scurried on and off stops at the metro. I imagined myself as sort of a refugee -- hungry, thirsty, ashen, carrying a sleeping baby in my arms, with a heavy backpack on my back. My mind was numb and all I could do was follow Kevin on and off the trains.

But then we finally reached a stop we deemed close enough to where we were staying, so we exited the Metro and entered Paris. It was close to midnight by this time, and the city was full of glittering lights and pedestrian-disregarding automobiles. The streets were moderately full of people enjoying the nightlife. My brain couldn't comprehend how anyone could be having fun at the time. We wandered up and down a few streets, increasingly weighed down by our backpacks and baby. And then we finally found it -- our Airbnb reservation. My brain perked up enough for me to remember to smile and say hello and then apologize for being late. Our hostess seemed tired but was kind. She showed us our room. A big, comfortable bed. A private bathroom. A washer and dryer.  A clean, beautiful room. When we were alone, Kevin and I melted onto the bed in relief.

Paris could yet redeem itself.