Being impressed, first impressions.

Day 1

 

I am unsure of when this day began.  You see, I didn’t actually sleep on the plane.  I had way too much excitement, adrenaline, anticipation, and pressure on my ears from flying thousands of feet in the air.  On arrival in Paris, hour number 24, Sandra joyously greeted me, both of us jumping up and down like children.  

However, first thing is first (the most obvious of expressions).  Paris is the most convoluted airport I have ever seen.  On landing, the airplane homes in on one of the many airplane pods that are scattered about, we then disembark and are shuttled through a maze of these circular pods before we arrive at the mother pod.  I know that France has always been a revolutionary country, filled with radical ideas and the spirit of freedom, but does this world really need an airport designed with the same principles as an anarchist collective?  I hand my passport in to a very bored looking guard.  My heart is racing wildly.  My return ticket is scheduled for 4 days after the 90 visitor limit in France, are they going to whisk me away, lock me in a window less room and subject me to the silent treatment for hours, grill me under a hot lamp, strip search me with cold, uncaring, and sterile rubber gloves? Unfortunately my most secret desires are not fulfilled.   He is completely unconcerned about the hammers and chisels hidden away in my pack, says not one word to me, and with utter disdain and boredom he motions me off to discover this great land of wine, fine foods, and perpetual strikes and riots.

We went straight to her place and talked and talked and talked.  Topics ranged from the celebrity-ness of Sarkozy the wicked to the French use of the word pragmatic (which is highly pejorative).  The bags under my eyes were slowly swelling and I was running on pure fascination at this point.  I still needed to fight back against that lurking devil named Jet lag, so we decided to go for a walk around the Louvre, and pick up my metro and museum passes.  We went to the Louvre and walked about, visited the obelisk of Luxor (one of the few that wasn’t just plain stolen from Egypt), and then took a brief walk down Champs de Elysses singing that famed song all the way.  Sandra told me many important things about Paris, including the fact that the Eiffel tower is one of the few monuments of the world that is, "free of rights."  You see, Sandra hasn't spoken English since my sister Erin visited her last year, her English is usually impeccable, she watches alot of english television, but the odd time she makes up wonderful phrases that leave me flabberghasted.   I assumed this meant that anyone can enslave the eiffel tower, withold its freedom of expression or this tower's right to practise any religion it chooses.  But in Sandrish "free of rights" translates as no one owns the rights to the Eiffel tower, meaning it is not trademarked!

At this point I should let the reader know that this is my first blog, and errors are to be expected.  I have been wary of blogs until this point in my life.  Firstly, I have always thought that blogs are glorified picture books that float about cyberspace, which they are, but I've gotten over that as a negative.  However, for this reason my first post shall remain without photos.   Secondly, I always thought that blogs were for EMO kids.  I have nothing against over-emotional pubescent poetical waxings, but do they need to be displayed for everyone to see?   The theatre of the deep personality is a distasteful illusion.  Thirdly, doesn't Obama blog?  I mean, how can I compete with Obama?  Nonetheless, I will try tenacity, and see if I can make this thing work.