the baggage-claim area
in Charles de Gaulle International Airport, waiting for our backpacks to be
spit out. Not that anything can get me down. Because I am in Paris—the land of
romance.
When the plane finally landed, we followed Joanna through
customs. Joanna began singing, “ Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse, on y
danse !” at the top of her lungs. No idea what she was saying, but I’m assuming
it was in French. Everything was in French. The signs, the people, the
restaurants, the bookstores. Then we went through customs, where the man said,
“ Bonjour ,” to me. Bonjour! How cute is that? I got an adorable
stamp on my spanking-new passport, and then I snuck into les toilettes and now we’re here in le baggage claim. Waiting. Oh there’s mine, gotta
go! Hmm, it looks insanely heavy. I think twenty T-shirts, fifteen pairs of
shorts, and eight pairs of shoes may have been overkill.
Tommy is waving at me, trying to get my attention, possibly
trying to let me know that my bag is coming around the bend.
Perhaps if I pretend to not see it he will pick it up for
me?
He’s doing it! He’s doing it! Tee hee. What’s French for
gullible dork?
A few hours later
Even the trip from the airport to the hostel was
exciting.
“Can you smell it?” I asked Becca as we stepped out of the
airport doors.
“Smell what?” she asked, sliding on her oversized
sunglasses.
“The fresh pastries! The hot coffee! The Chanel perfume!”
“I smell the diesel fuel,” she said with a shrug.
Mike led us to our air-conditioned bus, and Becca and I
moved to the back row and sat with our feet up. We cheered as we spotted the
Eiffel Tower through the window. The driver sped along the highway like he had
never heard the expression “speed limit,” and I squeezed Becca’s hand.
Now we are at the hostel, Les Quatre Saisons.
Which is ironic, considering this place looks nothing like
the Four Seasons. Not that I’ve ever stayed at a Four Seasons, but I went to a wedding
at one, and it looked nothing like this. And I bet the rooms were not dusty and
packed with metal bunk beds.
Not that I’m complaining. I am not. I am very lucky to be in
France. I had to beg, Beg, BEG my parents to let me come on this trip and do filing
work at my mom’s office for four months to help pay for it. The trip was
Becca’s idea to begin with. She wanted to just backpack across France, but my
mother would have never gone for that. I’ll admit it even freaked me out. So
this was the best compromise. And since it wouldn’t have been fair if Becca got
to go to Europe without Tommy, here we all are. In Les Quatre Saisons.
Stop number one.
There are six bunk beds in our room, which works out because
there are eleven of us: ten girls and one leader, Joanna. The guys are in a
room down the hall. For the first time ever I am sleeping on the top bunk.
(Sure, I can hear my mother’s voice warning me that I might roll off and end up
in a body cast, but I am ignoring her, thank you very much. Becca is beneath
me. Next to us is Penny and Penni (I am not making that up) best friends from a
neighboring Long Island ’burb. This is how Penny introduced herself: “I’m Penny
with a Y! This is my B-F-F Penni with an I!”
I’d mock her for using BFF in a sentence, but I think I just
used it a few pages ago.
But it’s not like I said it out loud.
Anyway, Penni with an I has blond hair and Penny with a Y is
a brunette. They are wearing matching velour sweatsuits, rhinestoned
flip-flops, and pigtails.
“I hate them,” Becca whispered as she unrolled her sleeping
bag.
Becca never shies away from making snap judgments. She never
shies away—or is shy—about anything. Compared to her, Tommy is so quiet.
The other six girls on our trip are Britney, Rori-Ann, and
Carrie from Jersey, who seem to be quite cliquey— (they have not spoken a word
to anyone but one another and have already taped photos of their boyfriends on
the walls behind their pillows); Max
in Charles de Gaulle International Airport, waiting for our backpacks to be
spit out. Not that anything can get me down. Because I am in Paris—the land of
romance.
When the plane finally landed, we followed Joanna through
customs. Joanna began singing, “ Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse, on y
danse !” at the top of her lungs. No idea what she was saying, but I’m assuming
it was in French. Everything was in French. The signs, the people, the
restaurants, the bookstores. Then we went through customs, where the man said,
“ Bonjour ,” to me. Bonjour! How cute is that? I got an adorable
stamp on my spanking-new passport, and then I snuck into les toilettes and now we’re here in le baggage claim. Waiting. Oh there’s mine, gotta
go! Hmm, it looks insanely heavy. I think twenty T-shirts, fifteen pairs of
shorts, and eight pairs of shoes may have been overkill.
Tommy is waving at me, trying to get my attention, possibly
trying to let me know that my bag is coming around the bend.
Perhaps if I pretend to not see it he will pick it up for
me?
He’s doing it! He’s doing it! Tee hee. What’s French for
gullible dork?
A few hours later
Even the trip from the airport to the hostel was
exciting.
“Can you smell it?” I asked Becca as we stepped out of the
airport doors.
“Smell what?” she asked, sliding on her oversized
sunglasses.
“The fresh pastries! The hot coffee! The Chanel perfume!”
“I smell the diesel fuel,” she said with a shrug.
Mike led us to our air-conditioned bus, and Becca and I
moved to the back row and sat with our feet up. We cheered as we spotted the
Eiffel Tower through the window. The driver sped along the highway like he had
never heard the expression “speed limit,” and I squeezed Becca’s hand.
Now we are at the hostel, Les Quatre Saisons.
Which is ironic, considering this place looks nothing like
the Four Seasons. Not that I’ve ever stayed at a Four Seasons, but I went to a wedding
at one, and it looked nothing like this. And I bet the rooms were not dusty and
packed with metal bunk beds.
Not that I’m complaining. I am not. I am very lucky to be in
France. I had to beg, Beg, BEG my parents to let me come on this trip and do filing
work at my mom’s office for four months to help pay for it. The trip was
Becca’s idea to begin with. She wanted to just backpack across France, but my
mother would have never gone for that. I’ll admit it even freaked me out. So
this was the best compromise. And since it wouldn’t have been fair if Becca got
to go to Europe without Tommy, here we all are. In Les Quatre Saisons.
Stop number one.
There are six bunk beds in our room, which works out because
there are eleven of us: ten girls and one leader, Joanna. The guys are in a
room down the hall. For the first time ever I am sleeping on the top bunk.
(Sure, I can hear my mother’s voice warning me that I might roll off and end up
in a body cast, but I am ignoring her, thank you very much. Becca is beneath
me. Next to us is Penny and Penni (I am not making that up) best friends from a
neighboring Long Island ’burb. This is how Penny introduced herself: “I’m Penny
with a Y! This is my B-F-F Penni with an I!”
I’d mock her for using BFF in a sentence, but I think I just
used it a few pages ago.
But it’s not like I said it out loud.
Anyway, Penni with an I has blond hair and Penny with a Y is
a brunette. They are wearing matching velour sweatsuits, rhinestoned
flip-flops, and pigtails.
“I hate them,” Becca whispered as she unrolled her sleeping
bag.
Becca never shies away from making snap judgments. She never
shies away—or is shy—about anything. Compared to her, Tommy is so quiet.
The other six girls on our trip are Britney, Rori-Ann, and
Carrie from Jersey, who seem to be quite cliquey— (they have not spoken a word
to anyone but one another and have already taped photos of their boyfriends on
the walls behind their pillows); Max
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