The Eagle Has Landed

Remember Francis Gary Powers, the U2 pilot who was shot down over Soviet Russia by a SAM we didn’t know they had? Naturellement, he was vilified in the United States for singing like a caged canary in the hands of Ruskies, but I feel for him now. On what was a relatively short trans-Atlantic flight, my ass gave out before the 747 did. Ten hours in the air, and I was ready for a short hop to bed; ten hours over Russia and a missile up the tailpipe and it’s no longer surprising that Mr. Powers was ready to capitulate as well.

Of course, I surrendered pretty quickly, but I still had an RER ride to Gare du Nord and a Metro hop to Madeleine, neither of which were facilitated by my lack of usable French skills. A half-hour ride and what in the States would have been 10 minutes of buying tickets stretched into about three and a half hours of French-English dictionary-toting frenzy. In case you were wondering, voie means a train track. After stuttering je besoin une carte orange, which may very well make no grammatical sense whatsoever, to a ticket agent who seemed quite game for some sport with an American, I got my Juillet pass and found my train. At the Madeleine stop, I managed to make ou est Rue Duphot? understandable, and found the Burgundy.

Checking in took a matter of minutes, and at 4:30 I was in bed. I know they say you’re supposed to wait until at least 5:00 to counter the jet lag, but I’m a rebel.

Days in Paris: one. Sights seen: Madeleine. While walking by.

C'est Madeleine