DAY 1:
We arrived in France on the last day of the year: December 31, 2019. Unlike the thousands of tourists who excitedly discussed their activities for New Year’s Eve, we weren’t in Paris for the festivities. No.
For us, Paris was a transition point, a place of entry into a country that would be our home for the next seven months.
“Sabbatical” and “research” became the words that explained our presence in that new country. My husband’s professional opportunities took us to France, and so, on the very last day of the year, we landed at the Charles De Gaulle.
We were quite a scene. First of all, there were five of us, the parental duo with three offsprings. I have since learned that three is an unusual number of children for both Brazilian and French standards. Especially French.
Then, there was the matter of luggage. We carried a lot of baggage. Literally. We had a total of eleven bags, counting seven large suitcases -two of them new, the rest barely rolling by on cracked and crumbling wheels, and all bursting at the seams. We also had a good mix of backpacks, small and colorful kid’s suitcases, and two car seats, each in their own brightly colored transportation bag. We were a sight to be seen.
We stumbled through the airport, half yelling at each other, kids tired and crying, adults concerned and screaming, bags falling off of carts, coats falling off our backs, and finally made our way to the taxi line. The deal was, passengers had to wait for a general manager to direct indicate which taxi you should take. Now, this is Europe we are talking about, where the compact car is the norm.
The line manager took one look at our blubbering pack of hoarders, and laughed. With a snicker that said “Americans,” he spat out:
“Bah, c’est beaucoup, non?”.
Oui, Mr. Line Manager. It was beaucoup. It really was way more than we needed, but what did we know?
He pulled us aside and we waited for another fifteen minutes for a minivan to pull up until, finally, we were loaded up and ready to go to our destination: a small, quaint hotel in the heart of Paris’ Quartier Latin.
DAY 2
All my three kids were crying, they each missed something, or someone.
It was only our second day in Paris and things were going badly. We had spent our New Year’s Eve in bed, exhausted after a long flight. To be fair, we had slept during the afternoon and so, on New Year’s, all five of us were sleepless, restless, and irritable, too irritable to even want to go out.
I considered heading out to see fire works, but the thought of tugging my kids along the crowded streets of Paris was enough to convince me otherwise.
So, we watched French cartoons we didn’t understand, and waited for our whacked up internal clocks to readjust to the new time change. It didn’t by the way, for the following three days.
So, on Day 2, all we did was we walked around the neighborhood, stumbled upon the Sorbonne, argued hysterically with each other in the middle of pedestrian traffic, and made our way back to the hotel feeling out of place, tired, and emotionally drained.
To be fair, it was January 1st, not a lot opens in Paris on the first day of the year anyway, but still. And that was Day 2.
