Great expectations can play havoc on adventure, as a mere five hours in the French Capital was to prove...Arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport this morning, I was giddy with excitement. I scurried through the security checks (ahhh... the blessings of an EU passport, thanks Mum!), hurried out the doors from Terminal trois, and through the Paris sunshine. Past groups of people lazing on small patches of grass, waiting for flights to arrive and depart, to Terminal deux-beh, where my lovely friend was to be meeting me in just over an hour. Having battled the 24-plus hour journey from Sydney airport, via Singapore, Frankfurt and London's Heathrow, she arrived wide-eyed but weary. In typical girly fashion we waved through the glass separating baggage claim from the public, blew French-kisses and squealed (a lot!)... and then we waited. And waited. Long after the droves of other passengers had claimed their goods and made their way through the exits... Staring through the glass I had a first-class view to my friend's plight, although without any sound and with no way to help. Her airline had managed to lose her luggage somewhere across the English Channel, and she was given the news that her bag may be sent back home to Australia. Ahhh, NO!
To add insult to injury, when she asked for some financial restitution - to buy toiletries and a few spare pairs of undies - the airline's Account Manager had the gall to say that their losing her luggage was not, "a good enough excuse," as to her receiving the standard 150 euros compensation. According to him, lets name him, Michel... he had to be discerning when handing out his money. Forgive me Michel... is it not the airline's money - and should they not be discerning when fulfilling their obligation of delivering ones luggage along with oneself?! Our first taste of Parisian-pomp. Not so pleasant.
So four hours later, and with decidedly less to lug-around, we discarded plans of tackling the Metro and headed instead for the taxi stands. Forty-minutes later, we were in Le Marais and beginning to remember the excitement we had both felt prior
to the morning's 'little mishap.' We were shown our tiny, but oh so French, second-floor apartment by Gil, our landlord, and again we giggled and squealed. Not five minutes later, however, we were visited again by lady luck's twisted cousin, and found ourselves locked out - no phone, no money. We both had keys, no, that wasn't the problem. The problem arose from our door being a little bit French, a little bit difficult, a little bit temperamental. With the help of a kindly neighbour we managed to force open the door (after a few heave-hoes, and unladylike grunts). Once inside our thoughts turned to wine... and lots of it. But, we had a city to explore and despite all signs to the contrary we decided we were here to enjoy ourselves. So off we set, for the cobbled streets below!
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