Somewhere in Paris

by Penelope Roberts (Australia)

A leap into the unknown France

I opened my eyes to a stranger’s touch on my shoulder. I flinched at the sight of unfamiliarity, quickly realising the plane had landed. Having just arrived in Paris, I was still miles away from the bright lights that embody ‘The City of Love’. Fumbling my way through Charles de Gaulle Airport, I became increasingly panicked by the lack of English being spoken around me. It was true; the French did seem rude. I was 22, naive and alone. I had never travelled to another country on my own before. My rose coloured glasses were beginning to fade. I looked down at my handwritten directions, impressed that I had managed to buy a train ticket. “I’ve got this”, I thought to myself as I stepped from the platform onto the train. To my relief, the train was relatively empty. After stowing six months worth of clothing, shoes and other miscellaneous junk above my seat with great difficulty, I began to relax. As the train began to fill, a sharp incision of panic seared my stomach. Before too long, the aisle was completely congested with bodies, and I wondered how on earth I would get my oversized luggage down without knocking myself or someone else out cold. My stop was fast approaching and as the train sped ahead I became increasingly anxious. This was it. I was at my stop. I arose from my window seat as the person next to me dutifully moved with me. We awkwardly shifted into the aisle as the mishmash of people parted ever so slightly. As I reached for my absurd suitcase, a very kind and tall Frenchman raised his long arms and lifted it down for me with ease. I was ever so grateful. “Merci”, I enunciated with a warm smile. As I trudged off the train, I realised I had landed on my feet again. I stumbled into a sea of more strange people. One final train trip before I sauntered onto the cobblestone streets of Paris. I imagined the tree-lined streets would smell of fresh bread, crêpes and flowers. I stood at my platform awaiting the arrival of my train when I noticed an eerie man watching me from behind a pillar. When we locked eyes, he hid behind the pillar before reemerging behind another pillar nearby. As the searing panic quickly returned, I reminded myself that I was relatively safe in such a crowded place. I hopped on the final train and stowed my luggage by my side without issue. Reviewing my directions, I realised I was on the home stretch and a stone’s throw from the hostel I had booked online. Emerging from the underground train station onto the charming streets of Paris, it was exactly as I imagined it to be. I was yet to realise that the smell of freshly baked bread was often overpowered by the strong stench of urine. I looked around in awe, taking in the romantic streets encapsulated by vibrant boulangeries, pâtisseries and cafés. I stood by the side of the road awaiting an eager taxi driver to pull up and escort me to my hostel. After waiting for 45 sweltering minutes, I realised a taxi wasn’t going to stop. I was somewhere in Paris, only a short walk from my hostel, however I didn’t know east from west. Traipsing aimlessly, I noticed a park. I sat on the first bench I came across, next to a man who I suspect was homeless, and unfolded my huge suitcase. I pulled out my small laptop in the blind hope of locating a WiFi connection. No such luck. All out of ideas, I began to cry, covering my desperate eyes with dark shades. My rose coloured glasses had turned to ash. The homeless man began to speak to me in French. His empathy was palpable. He flagged down a young Frenchman in a suit and they conversed in their native tongue. The younger man spoke English very well and kindly offered to take me to my hostel. Without hesitation, I accepted his offer and followed him down the narrow cobblestone streets because sometimes in life you simply have no choice but to trust a complete stranger.