I shook Denise’s shoulder at 5 a.m. She examined me through slitted eyes.
“Not now,” she murmured.
I persisted. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
She rolled in my direction. “What?”
“Your birthday is tomorrow. I wanted to surprise you with reservations at a French restaurant.”
“That’s nice, but why wake me to tell me NOW?”
“Because our plane to Paris leaves this morning. You have only one hour to get ready and pack a bag.”
She suddenly looked worried. “I think you have had one of those dreams that just seems real.”
“No,” I said. “Our flight leaves at 9. You need to get ready.”
You husbands out there may think this was a risky venture, planning an expensive trip to Paris without allowing your wife any role in planning or execution. I know I did. I asked our daughter, Clarity, if she thought her mother might be upset.
“You are a moron,” she said.
She meant that I was dumb for thinking there might be a downside.
Turns out, women LOVE surprise birthday trips to Paris.
Who knew?
* * * *We fly into Orly Airport, which is south of city center. The Kube Hotel is on Paris’s northern edge. A cab ride there will cost over $50. Naturally I want to take a train.
We are supposed to be at the Musée d’Orsay at 2:30. That is more than two hours from now, and back home two hours seemed like plenty of time to get to the hotel, and then to the museum. But now, here at the airport, we are confronted with a dizzying array of signs directing us to different trains. We can go down these stairs, or those over there, but what if they lead to the wrong train? We will have wasted valuable time! My brain, recognizing that it has nothing useful to offer, takes a nap.
The cab ride to the Kube Hotel takes nearly an hour. My brain, grateful for the rest, assures me that the cab fare was money well spent.
Stupid lazy brain.
* * * *Speaking from hindsight, Paris subways are wonderful. I do not know if the trains run on time, but they run so frequently it doesn’t matter. You can get virtually anywhere in the city by walking to a station that is no more than fifteen minutes from wherever you happen to be. Google Maps offers step-by-step instructions: which subway entrance to use, what signs to follow, how many stops before you get off, and what exit to use. And, the subway is faster than above-ground travel.
That is hindsight, however. We learned this valuable lesson after navigating from our hotel to the Musée d’Orsay..
* * * *We easily find the underground station. But once we descend the stairs we are in a catacombs. Mobs of people surround vending machines. Do the machines all sell single-use tickets? Do we want single-use tickets? Are the tickets limited to a specific destination?
I move to the front of a line. People mutter protests in French, but this is a reconnaissance mission, not an incursion. I just want to be sure that the line leads to someplace we want to be.
I return to the rear and report that I did not learn anything useful. We stay in the queue.
Eventually we find ourselves in front of a ticket dispensing machine. Everything is in French. But we are seasoned travelers. We know there will be a menu option for English. We push that button. The screen does not change. We consult our phones, which offer no help. Stupid smart phones do not work underground! We wish the vending machines used Spanish, rather than French. We have grown accustomed to not understanding that language.
The crowd behind us is expressing impatience. French people are going to be late for work because idiot foreigners are taking forever to buy a $2.50 ticket. I can feel the seething resentment. I do not blame them. Denise wants to give up. She pulls my arm, tugging me away from the machine.
I resist her pull. I turn to face the angry mob. I feel courageous, like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Does anyone here speak English?” I say this very loud so that it is clear we will not be giving up our place in line until someone admits knowing our ugly language.
A middle-aged lady speaks up. “I do,” she says.
I exhale my relief. “Great,” I say, now using the supplicating voice generally reserved for asking directions. I motion for her to join us at the front of the line. She looks around, apparently worried that the mob might turn on her. She knows how the French treat line jumpers.
“We want to go to the Musée d’Orsay,” I say. “What tickets must we buy?”
The lady, who probably makes her living working with toddlers, operated the machine until it spat out two little tickets. We expressed our gratitude, but she quickly backed her way into the faceless mob, presumably hoping not to be associated with the folks who made everyone late for work.
Some day I will tell you about the museum. Now, however, I will tell you the single most important thing to know when planning a trip to Paris.
Paris has a “Navigo Weekly Pass” for the train system. It costs about $30 and allows unlimited subway travel from Monday to Sunday. It includes transportation to and from both international airports. Once you have the pass you do not need to deal with the frustrating vending machines. You do not need to deal with subway ticket vendors of any kind. BUT, if you buy the pass on Saturday, it will be good for only two days. If you buy it on Wednesday and leave on Monday, you won’t be able to use it for the train to the airport. Get to Paris on Monday. Go into a subway station and ask an attendant for the Navigo pass. Leave on (or before) Sunday.
Actually, now that I think about it, the subway pass is only the second most important thing to know when planning a trip to Paris. If you are a man, the most important thing is surprising your wife on her birthday, or anniversary, or maybe Christmas. She will enjoy a surprise trip to Paris more than even the finest and most expensive kitchen appliance you can imagine. Even more than a robot vacuum.
