So I just had to take a video of myself trying—and failing—to
use a shower, and I had to send that video to a stranger. Well, I say “stranger,”
but I’ve become very close to the Support Team for this AirBnB and am starting
to think of them almost as a friend. I call them “ST” in my messages now, and
while I am extremely nervous that this shower situation might be user error, I
feel like ST isn’t going to judge me too harshly, at least not to my face, because
it is literally their job to deal with idiots like me. Dirty idiots, even. Still,
I have blisters forming on my right hand from the amount of time and effort I
have spent trying to pull a knob up higher than it wants to go, trying to
confirm that I have pulled it up as high as it will go, and I really
should just settle for taking baths for the next week as there is something
about videoing yourself failing at operating a shower, and then sending
that video to really anyone, that just isn’t good for the ego.
Prior to the video I did a lot of google research,
naturally, and it turns out that a lot of people the world over have trouble
with foreign showers. One such shower was operated by pulling a string that was
located across the room from the shower and so yeah I absolutely spent more
minutes than I’d care to admit carefully examining my bathroom for ceiling strings,
false panels, hidden switches, and the like. I almost hope this apartment has a
nanny cam so someone somewhere can laugh themselves silly watching me feel each
tile on the wall in the bathroom, wondering if there is some Indiana-Jones-like
combination I needed to tap out, and probably “God Save the Queen,”
which I don’t even know how that goes.
Anyhoodle, a nice man just arrived and told me that the
shower did in fact need some sort of something done to it, which he did, and
now I have a working shower. Ta fucking DA.
I swung by the Arc de Triomphe the other day, sniggering to
myself about how the second place plaque is in the ladies’ room, and while I
was there a woman approached me and said something in French so I gave her back
my usual, “Je ne parle pas Francais.”
“What do you parlez,” she asked me, just like that, so I
knew the jig was up: Big Dumb American, ici! Once we agreed on English, she wanted
to ask me a big favor, which is always not a good sign, except in this instance
her “big favor” was could I take a picture of her holding her bicycle in the
air in front of the Arc. She told me she had just ridden said bicycle from London
to Paris, which, okay, I think there is some water in between but whatever, so
I took a bunch of pictures of a nice lady holding a bicycle triumphantly in
front of the Arc de Triomphe and then darted away before she realized she could
not possibly have found anyone worse at photography, it’s not like I didn’t
try, I did, but I think we all know I was not the right woman for the job. (I asked Brandon if he thought I could figure out how to use a drone for photography and once he understood that I thought the drone carried one's phone into the air to take pictures his answer went from "no" to just a really heavy sigh.)
A lot of store windows have “tampon” in big letters and I
think the French version of that word maybe has something to do with shoes? Opening
hours are kind of weird, like “24 sur 24,” or “7 jours sur 7,” which…24 on 24? I
like our 24/7 better, sorry, France.
It was more than one day of noticing that all the tourist shops
had tote bags that read “PARIS” with a huge letter “A” behind the name of the
city before I realized the “A” was in fact the Eiffel Tower.
I have with me the journal I kept last time
I was in Paris. I went there to meet my friends Shannon and Chris but had some trouble doing so because when I arrived I realized—and I quote—“I did
not have the address to my hotel or theirs,” which is a reassuring
reminder that I’ve never been good at stuff like this, where “this” refers to
anything having to do with living in the real world.
HOWEVER, I did manage to thwart the evil geniuses at EZ Jet, which is one of those budget airlines that lures you in
with low fares but then wants to charge you for everything including the air
you breathe (optional, £15). For once in my life, I actually did extensive research which actually worked, as I learned I could pay
£47.20
to check my bag or purchase something called a “Hands Free” pass for £7,
which also enabled me to check my bag, so now, just £7 later, I’m in London. It’s pouring
rain and super windy today which seems like a good day to catch up on email, do some writing, generally get organized for the week.
I went to the grocery store earlier and it was a Lidl, which
I guess is kind of like an Aldi’s? It was very confusing (to me) but I managed
to buy some crumpets (£1) and some orange juice “without bits” (89 something…89
p?), plus more butter than I really should need (£1.99) and in
conclusion groceries seem very cheap, but maybe that’s a Lidl thing? I also
found a “real” coffee shop but they don’t have iced coffee—you can get an iced
latte or an iced americano, and they only had one size of cup (too small), so
when I get home and back to my beloved coffee shop, I am going to prostate myself
at Megan-my-favorite-barista’s feet and swear never to leave her again.
Though I’ve been in London less than 24 hours I’ve been
called “darling” twice, told something was “grand,” and the nice
shower-fixer-man actually said “Cheerio!” as he was leaving. On the “underground”
there is a recorded lady voice telling us that if we see something, we should
say something, which is something we are also told by the MTA, except by a man,
and in this case the lady adds on the option to text that something to
the police and then confidently assures us, “We’ll sort it.” At the end she
sums up her message: “See it, say it, sorted,” and I have been thinking a LOT
about why the MTA/NYPD leave off that last part. Aren’t the Americans the ones
who should go around confidently bragging we can solve problems we don’t even
know about, that we can fix anything? Can’t decide if I am offended or
impressed that London Transit has taken such a bold stance, but I guess one
look around any given MTA station would make it clear we’re not fixing much of
anything, so…good on you, London. Sorted!
Still, the front door to my apartment here comes with two
keys, a normal one which opens a normal lock the normal way, and then a skeleton
key that works a lock that is about 18 inches off the ground so you have to
crouch down to lock/unlock the door and I have no idea why this is a
thing but of course I am totally into it, so I'm going to toast up some crumpets and
find out what this London situation is all about.
More details: london paris travel
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