ZAK GARNER
|
| You don't forget your first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. By Zak Garner |
Getting Away to Get it All
By Zak Garner
I strum my fingers against the soft vinyl of my semi-worn passport, lovingly abused from a semester in London, as we saunter along Charles de Gaulle’s lengthy moving walkway system.The airport is our European arrival point; Paris our first city en route to Amsterdam and Barcelona.
My blood pumps double-time, doing whatever it is blood does when it’s waited five years to see the world. Bags? Check. Euros? Check. Neal? Check.
I scan the map of the Metro/RER, the chaotic squiggle of colors and letters a cold shower for the brain. “We’re taking the B to St. Michel-Notre Dame,” I say definitively to half-closed eyes. St. Michel! Notre Dame!
We approach a pale blockade. “No re-entry beyond this point,” reads the sign.
No re-entry, no problem. The trip I concocted during my pizza delivery years, long before I became afflicted with the travel bug, is actually here. It is my own European Dream, and I am finally living it.
Our first glimpse of Paris’ Île de la Cité feels like falling into an Impressionist painting. The Seine meanders endlessly along stone banks; Notre Dame’s massive towers loom overhead. This scene—smack dab in the center of Paris’ 21 arrondissements—is particularly remarkable when contrasted with the dingy lair from which we’d just emerged.
 |
| Ben (center), Neal (right) and I: It's 9 a.m. Time to call it a night. Courtesy of Zak Garner |
We cross over the river, eyes big and darting, in search of a much-needed espresso and our first French croissants.
When in Paris…
My head bobs like a pogo stick as we wander among the locals, gypsies and fellow rubberneckers. The streets are narrow; the a.m. sky overcast. The mid-March wind is biting, but even on my third trip to the city I am as invigorated as ever. I would gladly sacrifice chaffed cheeks for a few photos of the rows and rows of wood-shuttered, cast iron-balconied apartment windows.
We step into an anonymous café along the outskirts of the Marais district, a respite from the cold.
“Trois café,” Neal says in broken French.
The coffee is bitter and steaming and we burn our tongues sipping it down. Ben signals the waiter for more. This is supposed to be an economical trip. C’est la vie.
The long, mirror-walled bistro is a perfect hub to debate our future adventures. It will get even better from here, I think.There are the Van Gogh Museum and canal rides in Amsterdam. “Maybe rent some bikes, too,” Ben says.
Barcelona has it all: the Spanish jazz joints, La Sagrada Familia and miles of beaches. The sites that made these cities famous are waiting for us—us!—to find them.
But there ’s even more still, what's beneath the surface: the vivacious old streets to walk and the local flavors of their sidewalk cafes to taste; the art and the architecture and the people to devour. The variety of culture is a fresh contrast to my already studied Midwestern home.
I am a student of the globe, and I hope I never graduate.
I peel off my thick nylon rain jacket and sink like melting butter into the plush booth. Our large travel backpacks slump over at our sides, bursting with soon-to-be dirty laundry. The waiter carries a round brown tray and sets it atop our table. Two hours stand between our jetlagged but adrenaline-fueled trio and a train bound for the Netherlands.
But first things first: a few of those famous croissants.