{The meager beginnings of an attempt to chronicle my experiences before they are lost in the recesses of my memory forever}
Because it was on the way back from Barcelona, and because we all wanted to go there, I mean, you kind of had to go there, we decided to go to Paris. I had been there before, a few years ago, with my family, but this time, for many circumstantial reasons, was very different. That time the entire traveling experience had been a chore, and horribly boring at times. Well, traveling is always a chore, partly, but that time it really did seem like I was tired all the time, of my family, of museums, of sightseeing. It all just blended together into a long, tired homesickness. One brighter memory I do have is the Panini’s, though. My parents were running low on their Europe budget by the time we got to Paris, so everyday, for the entire week we were there, we had to split between the five of us two Panini’s that cost about three Francs each. Though the portions seemed far too small after we had carried them up to our little hotel room and divided them up equally, they always seemed to fill me up, and more importantly, warm me up. My two brothers always fought over who got the portion that appeared to be two millimeters bigger than the others, then gobbled them up before I had managed to put a dent in mine. The melted cheese and delicately sliced meat seemed to make my stomach bulge until well into the next day. The man who sold it to us was the best part about it though; he must have been making sandwiches day and night for, like, his entire life, and he loved it. Every evening we made our journey back to our hotel from a rigorous day of doing touristy things, our feet aching and our steps heavy, but when we began to pick up the savory smells of those Panini’s, our pace would quicken and our growling, empty stomachs would lead us to the grimy street corner. There was always a crowd positioned close and personal around the guy flipping and grilling, locals and tourists alike, but by about the fifth day we had gone to him, he would smile at us, call us his “friends” and get started on our usual order right away. So happy, so content, just like that.
So, like I said, this time was different. More drinking, more not-by-the-book exploration, more random meetings with interesting people. When you’re with your family consisting of a middle aged couple and three small children you tend to stick together, because there’s no need for anybody else really. This time though, I was still looking for the magic that I had experienced during my first trip, and I didn’t care how stupid that sounded when I thought about it. Hopefully it would be even more memorable this time, and more meaningful. I fervently looked for meaning everywhere, from the writing on bathroom walls to the epic view from the Sacre Ceour. Our first night in the city, my three fellow travelers and myself tried, unsuccessfully, to sneak four people into a room reserved for three. We spent two hours at an Italian restaurant around the corner, in the middle of the night, scheming a plan drawn out on a paper napkin that would allow our fourth member to enter unnoticed. This problem occurred because before, when we had made the reservation online, in the safety of our London flat, we thought it would be no trouble at 2 am to waltz right in with an extra personne; no big deal, everybody did it. Not at this joint, no no…non. This vaguely middle eastern man and his minions had us pined from the start as scammers..we were nailed, identified and humiliated on the spot. But, it all worked out, because our fourth, “illegal” confidante was escorted to a more expensive single room, the “Harry Potter Closet” that, for its modest size and old, grimy furniture, offered us one feature that silenced our momentary fit of panic. In the center of the slanted west facing wall was a window with no shades, and placed perfectly in the middle of this window showed us a clear and vivid view of the Eiffel Tower, blinking with luminescence of a million bulbs. The minute we had walked into our expensive second room happened to be the minute of the new hour, in the middle of the night, and we caught the light show during our first, jet lagged night in Paris. And we shrieked and laughed and took pictures and it was full of magic.
