J'arrive

(Written 24 September 2008)

I have arrived in France. With a sickening jolt and a distinct tearing sound that resembled that of an airplane tire being ripped to shreds and launching debris into sensitive flight instruments, my co-passengers and I sliced down through the fog and into Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport. After a brief taxi and a tearful adieu to my nuclear-power-plant-auditing neighbor, I hit the ground hobbling with a wonkily-wheeled roller suitcase and a backpack that looked to be in heated competition with my body mass.

Charles de Gaulle is named after that famous sausage-loving former president (not to be confused with that former sausage-loving famous president) who did enough for France to have a maze of glass-enclosed, spongy moving walks named after him. As my feet pressed unsettlingly into these conveyor belts of luxury, I found that as I ventured further and further into what I imagined to be the heart of the structure, the signs for baggage claim and transit became progressively more French, dropping the helpful but unrealistic crutch of English translation that I knew would inevitably have to be abandoned. This language transition turned out to be not only pleasantly challenging but also extremely rewarding, as I was briefly convinced that I had crossed two continents using a series of squish-walks. The business of epic travel wasn’t so hard after all!

Being blissfully content with my first 20 seconds as an independent tourist, my descent into the train station was met with epic failure. Navigating through a major international airport was one thing, but buying a pack of chocolate snack cookies? That was another matter. My luck with American vending machines has been a mixed bag, often due to a lack of consideration for any environmental variables aside from my craving for a sweet and buttery snack. Today, though, I was in a new country, learning new things and turning over new leaves. Why not kick it off with a change in automated consumption? And when I discovered the unique and straightforward scheme that is French vending, I knew I had picked the right place to start. You see, instead of the no-nonsense, insanely-fast-paced method of American goodie selection, wherein buttons pushed are laser-engraved commitments etched in diamond and mistakes are met with mercilessly incorrect candies, French vending machines believe in second chances. A reassuring confirmation button appropriately marked with a red “R” adorns each device, and you don’t have to push it until you’re darn good and ready to devote yourself to said snack. Unfortunately, I was so impressed by this system that I forgot to take the items that I had so proudly purchased. Like an arcade junkie coming off a high-score performance of Ms. Pac Man, I walked away with an air of quiet confidence, certain that I had gotten my money’s worth. And directly behind me, an audience of hungry travelers mobbed the complimentary cookies that had materialized before their eyes.

At this point I had not been in France for more than 54 seconds, but it was clear that my sensitivity to all of these great cultural differences could have adverse effects on my ability to keep my wits about me. The day was far from over, and there was plenty of time to get lost in the life of the French.