# 27 July 2006, 14:07
There is one thing we all know for sure; if something can go wrong … it will.
Sod’s law, Murphy’s law, the butter-side down law and Finnagle’s law (the perversity of the Universe tends towards a maximum) – all stand in testament to this universally acknowledged truth – and you mess with it at your peril.
In the Summer of 2003, before we were married, Yoko and I went to Paris, the most romantic city in the world. We’d been staying at a friend’s beautiful home in Normandy while the entire country sweltered under a deadly heat wave. In Paris many of the trees had piles of desiccated leaves under them – autumn already, in the middle of August.
We arrived on Thursday evening and had a little more than a day to enjoy the city as Yoko had to catch a flight to London on Saturday to meet her connection to Tokyo where she was due at work, bright eyed and sparkling, on Monday morning. We’d caught a TGV to Gare Montpernasse – a major train station, serving a good 35% of France. We followed the prominent signs and dragged the heavy luggage into the blazing heat of an empty taxi rank.
Empty for 20 sun-burnt minutes.
Well, that’s not the end of the world, fin du monde or anything close, I thought. We dragged the luggage about 25 kilometers to the front of the station where the real taxi rank was – of course, I thought, we are in Paris now, we should expect this type of thing – signs are for the tourists – or more accurately, for the entertainment of the locals watching the tourists while they get angry and frustrated at the impenetrability of the systems that the Parisiennes take entirely in their stride.
There were two elderly women waiting in front of us at that first, decoy, taxi rank – they could still be there. Perhaps we should have gone back to help them? Point out that the real taxi rank was a good half day’s hike over bridges and moving walkways (all moving in the opposite direction of course). We should have reminded them they were in Paris now and with a shrug that is recognized the world over as a uniquely French characteristic they would have said something incomprehensible about the price of fish.
But, joyously and discretely damply, we piled into a Renault Fallstobitssoon which was to our enormous relief; air-conditioned. Yoko consulted maps and gazed out at the city behind the glass while I telephoned abroad from my mobile. One has to maintain an air of civilisation after all.
The hotel was small and simple – I said my name and a young traveller behind the desk silently handed me an oblong plastic card with holes punched out of it in a rather pleasing pattern and a room number written on a piece of elastoplast stuck jauntily at the bottom. He pointed round the corner and we followed his trembling finger to a flight of stairs that lead to the escalator. I have to ask what the point is of having an escalator that is up just one flight of stairs. Either you have luggage or you don’t – and seeing that this was a small hotel, I’d place the odds on every sorry soul who faces those stairs with a piece of oversized, back-straining suitcase as better than evens – I have to ask again; what??? Of course I will never get a reply. Our room was on the sixth floor – the elevator went up to five – this was Paris, after all.
Ah well, it’s not the end of the siècle or anything. The one thing I’d made sure of when selecting the hotel – air-conditioning – was installed and it worked – things were definitely looking up.
We distributed our clothes evenly around the small room with quaint, sloping ceilings and I demonstrated my manly prowess by opening the velux windows without the aid of an instruction booklet.
We left to explore and wound up at Le Chatelet in a bistro that served a very acceptable steak and house wine. We walked down the side of the Seine past the Louvre, I made jokes that didn’t work and took photographs of Yoko that did. We were lovers in Paris and life was as good as it gets. We crossed to the South Bank and walked to the Boulevard St Germain where we sat and had beers and pretended we were locals.
We had an entire day to look forward to – to spend enjoying the city – OK, it was a national holiday and all of the shops would be shut, but that was a minor detail, we had the weather and our love and didn’t need to buy anything anyway. We slept like innocent babes.
Next morning, Yoko’s tight return schedule was worrying me so I checked with reception about the route to the airport – I’d already decided I was going to go with her to Charles De Gaulles but I wanted to be double sure about everything – could I book a taxi to take us to the station?
“ahh monsieur, zis is Paris – you cannot book un Taxi unless it is tu ze airport”
ok – pas le fin du monde huh? – we can deal with that. And if we can’t find un taxi at 7:30 in the morning, it’s only a ten minute drag down cobbled streets to the station.
Let’s enjoy our day – but first, as a caution and because I’m such an experienced world traveller, versed in the many separate tiny ways that travel can trip you up, I suggested we put all our precious stuff in the safe in the room. We certainly didn’t want to fall foul of the pickpockets that would be inevitably drawn to us like moths to flames. We were older and wiser than those poor sods who get their holidays ruined by charming, scruffy little urchins who run into them and lift their wallets in a twinkling of an innocent looking eye.
Another plastic key – this time black – is produced and we consign the passports, some credit cards and Yoko’s airline tickets into a safe that looked like it was designed by Houdini to protect his trade secrets.
Off we pop – and we pop everywhere. We have croissants outside a small boulangerie, we behave like tourists at the Pompidou Centre, visit a Chinese exhibition, declare we’re not sure about the architecture and take photographs of people being drawn in a very flattering style by itinerants with easels. We troupe around looking for a dodgy kebab and succeed. I call Halit, an old Paris resident friend and agree to meet near the Sacré Cour in Montmartre in just over un heur – no probs, it’s not that far – just all up hill and it’s not the coolest day of the year. Well, we have to have an espresso to take away the taste of the rank meat while we look at the map and try to work out where we are. Yoko helpfully points out that we’re sitting opposite a sign saying Rue Du Montmartre – so I reckon I can get us there… hunter instincts never far from the genetic surface…
Map in the back pocket, we set off – gradient gently increasing – Yoko in heels – but that’s what women wear – right?? We make it – only a few hundred yards short of the goal and after consulting the map a few times. Mobile phones are a wonderful thing aren’t they? How did anyone ever meet anyone before they were invented? Beats me.
It’s good to see an old friend and we chat a while – that is Halit and I chat a while, Yoko nurses her feet. We saunter off to find a newsagent so Halit can recommend a decent jazz bar we can go to – this is Paris, right? European centre of jazz – well it used to be, but there’s no demand for it now. “no demand?? Jazz?” When did jazz ever rely on a demand??
Ok – so we can go to a Cuban salsa place maybe, but it’s a holiday today so who knows? – Not the French, that’s for sure. We hop a taxi and get back to the hotel.
That’s when the day changes – instantly and forever.
I’ve lost the key to the safe. The safe that contains Yoko’s passport – two working days to replace from the Japanese Embassy – (and today is a national holiday) and non-refundable/non-changeable airline tickets (the “you’re ‘aving a larf aincha? at this price mate you’re lucky you’re not sitting outside” type tickets) – and Yoko has to be at work by Monday morning
Bugger.
I know, or I think I know, I put it in my back left pocket – the pocket I never use – so it wouldn’t be misplaced by accident. It wasn’t there. It just wasn’t there. Then the horrible truth dawns on me – the same pocket – the pocket I never use (honestly, if you bought a pair of my used trousers in a jumble sale, you’d have to remark on how virginal the back left pocket was) – was the pocket I’d been keeping the often-referred-to map in all bloody day!
Yoko is unflustered – I love her even more than before if that was possible – the hotel will have a spare – of course, the hotel will have a spare – I’m thinking; “this is France – this hotel will never have a spare”.
The gypsy at the counter who’s English fluency is comparable to my French (bloody tres bien on a bonne jour – I can dit a vous) – is clearly an intern on day-release – he has no clue – pas du clue du tout.
After protracted sign language and a genuine desire to communicate on both sides and several trips to the sixth floor (which the lift still didn’t go to) it becomes apparent that all of his suggestions don’t work – and that there are, of course, two master keys to the room safes.
Wonderful – where are they?
The first one is wiz zer Boss – ‘ee iss on ‘oliday.
The second one iss wiz zer manager – she iss on ‘oliday aussi – elle départ ziss morning for the sodding south of France.
OK, he didn’t say ‘sodding’ – I’m embellishing with that, and only that, detail..
So – errr.. so…. Suggestions?
It iss un ‘oliday ‘ere en France today..
I bloody know that!
More sign language, animated sign language – and we figure out that we either have to call in the night porter with a big drill (I know this stands no chance – I may not have any experience at safe cracking but I’ve watched enough Michael Caine movies to know that an amateur with a drill isn’t going to crack the Bank of Zurich approved lump of titanium in our room) or we have to wait until Monday when the boss returns, wrangle with airlines for new tickets and refunds (pas du chance monsieur) and Yoko has to try to contact her manager to find a replacement to stand in for her TV recording on Monday or…. I have to find the key.
Good job I don’t speak much French – especially the more ‘robust’ words.
Ok – the task is clear, simple and obvious; we have to find a piece of plastic in Paris. (Also impossible, I forgot that bit.)
We will re-trace our steps – every single one – and I will ask at each location if they have found un clef le meme que the one I have with me, only noir.
We met an entirely new staff at the crap kebab restaurant who didn’t speak much French either.
The waiter who had served us espressos who looked like a failed fighter turned out to be sweet and helpful and concerned that we were truly in whatever the French call shit, (‘merde’ apparently – that could come in useful) was sorry that he hadn’t seen any small pieces of black plastic all day – I’d given him a decent tip earlier and he remembered – instant value for money I reckon.
We walked, always up hill – searching the street corners we could remember we’d stopped to consult the map – Yoko only has heels to wear – I’m thinking if we can find a shop that sells crap trainers I’m buying some in her size – or any size.
Nothing – anywhere – we are searching Paris for a piece of plastic and we must have covered kilometres. We get a bit lost while we realise the map we are now consulting is in Japanese – the earlier one wasn’t – how did that happen? I have I brief flash that the original map is on the side of the bed back in the hotel room with a small black plastic card sticking out of it.
We are almost back where we were three and a half hours ago – a small detour and we’re standing outside the now closed newsagents where we happily looked over Halit’s shoulder, speculating about the night’s entertainment. Little had we known what that entertainment was going to be.
We scour the ground – the exact location of our last known use of the fated back pocket map – we see empty pill packets and the detritus of a sub culture on the edge. Two large ‘women in business’ suspiciously eye Yoko walking around the roadside in her heels and black dress – they wonder if I am her pimp – no doubt savouring the likely later confrontation with the local ‘owners’.
We are just about out of ideas – it wasn’t anywhere else – it must be here – but it isn’t.
I say to Yoko “you’re beat, let’s find a bar you can stay in and I’ll check out the only other place we went while we’re here”. She takes a microsecond to decide there isn’t a place she would sit, let alone stay in, within a quarter of a mile; “I’m coming with you”
We trudge up the last hill as the sun goes down – the bar where we had ordered a couple of waters and a beer, faces the Sacré Cour – the busiest tourist spot in the entire continent – and, in case I didn’t mention, it’s a holiday – a hot holiday.
There, beneath the front of the tiny oval table we’d been sitting at earlier, was the piece of black plastic. Yoko’s ticket home, the passports I’d been worried might be stolen, our plans and counter plans, lay in the dust one meter away from a constant torrent of arguing strangers, tired kids and clueless tourists (like us).
Disbelief, emptiness, a void. We kissed and held each other for a long time – there was nothing else to do. I made calls and cancelled our contingency plans. We sat and had a beer.
Later, we found a taxi – not an easy thing in Paris – seeing as it was a holiday (did I mention? Oh… OK). We got back to the hotel, had a decent meal in a bistro and went to bed – still somewhat dazed, I watched a news report about the US East Coast blackouts, turned to say something to Yoko and she was comatose – hand pointing at the door, earrings still in. I let her sleep.
We dragged ourselves from dreamland while it was barely light – packed and checked out. Walked out onto a bleary Paris Saturday morning – 7:30 am – and Yoko miraculously found a cab – driven by a very small person – I demonstrated my multilingual abilities once again and the driver set off in the direction of Monaco.
After some negotiation it was conceived that we simply needed the train station at Chatelet in order to go to Charles de Gaulles – the driver was very helpful after I’d given him a 20% tip and pointed out a glass obelisk in the pavement not 50 meters from where he dropped us.
It clearly said ‘RER’ – something to do with railways I reckon – but that was the one we wanted – RER to CDG – I can remember initials, it’s names I have a problem with. It was a lift, elevator, accensor or whatever you call it and it clearly took us to our destination, or at least the station. Well it might have been designed to do that but did it work? “rien du tout, naturellement”
Of course, I say to myself under garlic laced breath, this is Paris, of course it doesn’t bloody work.
In quick succession – we cart the luggage down some stairs – ticket barrier to the subway – don’t want the subway, want RER – but there’s a sign to RER so ‘sod it’ buy a ticket anyway – can’t buy a ticket – don’t have any change – no problem the machine takes plastic – no it doesn’t – says it does, but it doesn’t (of course).
Cart the luggage back up the stairs – look around – hotel! – cool – ask at reception – they sprecken ze English and know the score – well they can’t help much, but can change a ten euro note into coins.
Now at this point, and I’m not sure why, probably in the misguided notion that the signs I’d seen for a ticket office might actually sort us out with the entire route through to the airport and would make the whole journey stress free – I set off to find the Rue du Rivioli which the Swedish looking guy at reception had assured me was only 50 meters away behind a building, where the ticket office was. It was exactly where he said it should be. It was closed (of course).
We descend another flight of stairs optimistically signposted RER and encounter yet another ticket barrier. We struggle with the ticket machine but eventually obtain the precious pieces of magnetically impregnated cardboard and approach the barriers – which refuse absolutely to accept our tickets. They just don’t work.
We stand there looking at each other.
We stand there as a young guy comes down the stairs and walks right through the non-functioning barriers – they weren’t turned on.
We don’t have any more time to kick anything useful so we follow him.
Now, feeling like John Cleese in a farce, I drag the luggage down seven thousand flights of stairs into the very bowels of Paris to eventually get to an entrance to RER with ticket machines. Do they take plastic – no they fucking don’t. Well, they have all the pretty stickers that say they do of course, but this is Paris – the very origin of the Gallic shrug – where credit card logos can so easily be scratched out when the locals decide it isn’t appropriate to let non-residents of the arrondissement buy a train ticket.
Yoko has an American Express card which until this minute has been universally ignored by every single retailer in France – this time however the machine accepts it – I harbour suspicions that it never expected to see one of those because they are so universally hated by anything French so no-one had ever even bothered to present this wretched machine with a Japanese registered Amex. I expect that either she will receive a bill for twenty thousand Euros or it will never appear on her statement and some poor sod in Saint Étienne will constantly receive demands for payment for two train tickets he never bought.
We make the train.
Because we are super cautious – well – to be exact I am super cautious when it comes to getting my darling safely on a plane – we had allowed for fuck-ups – and we had used up every last second of our fuck-up time.
We had made it – we’d beaten the system that was put there to screw with us. We’d use all of our resources to overcome each obstacle and won. There was an accordionist on the train which I thought was so ironic I captured it on my camera – with sound – so of course I had to give him a coin for his performance rights – otherwise I would be a hyper-hypocrite – but I know I’ve only encouraged him to go off and bother some other early morning travellers – I’m sorry – please forgive me, unless you’re a French vending machine installer, in which case you fucking deserve every badly played note.
We make the airport only a couple of minutes later than planned – if someone can tell me why they build a train station that requires a bus ride to the terminal I’d be very grateful – anyone listening? No, I thought not… What came first, the airport or the train station?
But we made it – hell we’re good! We can beat anything that’s thrown at us – we are the champions.
Of course; the flight had been cancelled.
OK – err OK – err – we can deal with this – where is the British Midland’s counter? – no signs – of course not, this is Paris.
Terminal one at CDG is circular – I place Yoko at the British Airways counter with instructions (instructions no less!) to buy a ticket on the next plane to London if she can (bearing in mind that the only other flight to London had been cancelled, I thought the chances slight) and set off to find the BMI counter – in the wrong direction – it turned out to be about 340 degrees from where we stood – I could have got there in about 20 seconds – not the agonising two minutes I rushed through dense and ignorant tourists who seemed intent on getting in MY WAY!!
I found the BMI counter and argued, eloquently and from an informed position of a seasoned international traveler that they should put my loved one on the next flight out because there was no way she would make her connection at Heathrow if we waited for the next BMI flight which was scheduled (scheduled?? this was France for fuck’s sake – this is the place they invented air traffic controller’s strikes) to leave an hour and ten minutes later.
The representative listened attentively to my arguments and then told me it was my fault.
This may have been the defining moment, however the red mist descended and I can’t be absolutely sure what I actually said. I returned (in 20 seconds) to Yoko who was standing behind someone at the British Airways ticket desk who was actually trying to book a world tour for twenty people on standby and couldn’t understand why he could get what he wanted. I cajoled a local B.A attendant in a hideous dress (they call it a uniform, there has to be an excuse) to tell me if there were actually any seats left on the next flight – she was courteous, attentive and polite and told me “yes’ there were actually three left but they were about to close the flight and Yoko was still admiring the back of the guy arguing that he should be able travel where he wants whenever he wants.
At that point the universe changes it’s mind and the guy from the BMI counter appears waving a ticket with a sticker attached to it saying that Ms Kobayashi can get on the BA flight – and where the hell was I when he was looking for me??
I shook his hand to make him feel heroic and Yoko checked in and then she left me and I had tears in my eyes.
I have never in my whole life worked so hard to help the last person I want to leave me, to leave…
I hope someone is noticing..