Disclaimer: I can't always predict the future perfectly, so just because I promised something in my teaser line yesterday, it doesn't necessarily mean that I will actually talk about it today. It's true that I have in the past, and sometimes successfully, talked about subjects of which I know nothing, but in a blog like this, I'm assuming the reader wants the truth and not some fairy story.
So, we crossed no bridges and saw no gardens today--sorry for the bait and switch. The morning actually started out with a bit of a crisis which turned out to be a tempest in a teapot. This particular crisis began when we arrived in Paris-Charles de Gaul airport on Saturday in our slightly sleep-deprived state. We dimly realized that we didn't go through the usual passport-stamping line that we've always enjoyed whenever we travel abroad. You know: stumble off the airplane, go through the cattle-run hallways, into a wide hall with lots of empty stations and only 2 or 3 agents actually present. One for U.S. citizens, one for all others, and one to watch the other 2 stamping the passports.
When we got to the baggage claim, we realized that we had missed the cattle run, so we proceeded to customs and inquired about needing a passport stamp. I showed my passport to one of the officers, and he gravely examined it. He triumphantly pointed to a stamp and said, "there it is!" I explained to him that that particular stamp was the one I got in Reykjavik, Iceland on the way to Paris, but that no one in Paris had yet stamped my passport. He gave a perfect French shoulder shrug and said, "no problem, everything is fine." Ultimately, we decided to take him at his word despite our doubts, and wheeled our bags out to the taxi stand.
Later, we talked about it, and began to worry that we might have trouble getting out of France (not an unpleasant problem: "sorry Larry, I'm stuck in Paris for the next 2 months while the authorities iron out our immigration problem") or getting into the U.S. (less pleasant, since there's no place like home, even after a wonderful vacation). We decided that the best way to find out was to check in with the authorities. I know, I know, if you want tax advice, the last place you go is the IRS. Still, I decided that I had paid enough embassy salaries with my tax dollars over the years that I should avail myself of their services while in Paris. I was going to call on Monday, but realized that it was Labor Day, so I doubted that anyone in the American embassy would be allowed to labor on such a holiday, so I waited until yesterday.
We called the U.S. Embassy and immediately talked to: an answering machine. Having run the gauntlet of choices to find the right "real person" to talk to, I found out several things: first, pressing zero is almost always the fastest way to get a real voice, whether they're in the correct office or not; and second, as a privileged American, I don't have to pay to talk to the embassy personnel, but if I were a lowly Frenchman, I would have to pay (American enterprise at work). That's right, folks, your government is working for you, making money at every opportunity, just for you.
The operator was definitely French, but I don't think she had to pay any money to speak with me. She transferred me to another office where I spoke with another woman with nearly flawless English, but whom I still suspect was French. I'm a little worried that there may have been a bloodless coup at the embassy, and now the French government is making money off their own citizens' phone calls and stealing it out of the mouths of hungry Americans. The lady listened to my plight and laughed. "Now, you have to ask them to stamp your passport if you want a souvenir from the airport." She assured me that the U.S. government would indeed let us back into the country when we returned. "Even without the stamp, you cannot stay longer than your trip allows." Darn. Larry, I guess I will be back by the end of the month after all.
We met the hotel owner yesterday as well. We talked for a long time about a number of things (remember, the French love to talk), and finally got some shopping tips from him. North of our hotel, still in the Marais, it seems that there is a veritable Chinatown, importers of all kinds of wonderful stuff. Beth loves to shop for stuff, so off we went to investigate. We went into store after store of costume jewelry, purses, ready-to-wear, and bricabrac, and Beth was enthralled. Then we read a sign, one that was on nearly every store's door: "vente en gros seulement", which means that unless you plan to buy 50 of the same necklace or purse, you're out of luck. Imagine our chagrin. We ended the shopping spree with a trip to Pylones, a bricabrac store with all kinds of whimsical objects. You could get, in the same colorful and unusual style, anything from a cute plastic baby bib (which we bought) to a cute little tin of condoms (which we did not). Ultimately, the shopping excursion was salvaged by Pylones and a trip to Mariage Freres, a tea shop and boutique with every kind of tea known to man in large tins lining the wall.
Several times each day we hear the ambulance or police go by with their two-note siren and I immediately expect to see Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies coming around the corner asking "do you have a license for your monkey?" So far, no inspector and no monkey yet.
Tomorrow: French as you like it...
No comments:
Post a Comment