Day 1: Backpacking Europe via Eurorail
Wednesday, May 31, 1995
Newark, New Jersey USA

It was Wednesday, May 31 when our trip began with a luxurious ride to Newark, New Jersey in the ’84 Buick Skyhawk furnished with a cornucopia of foodstuffs from Mom & Dad. What a car! What a ride! What a day! This will be the last ride in the ‘Hawk for at least seven weeks. When in Newark, we were greeted at the jetway leading to a Boeing Vertol 747 by the most beautiful French flight attendants. I was directed to my seat by one of these lovely ladies in French. It was then and only then that I realized or even considered the ramifications of the language barriers we were about to face. I may surely expect to be challenged for the next few weeks. I wonder if it will be so frustrating that it dampens the experience? How are we going to communicate with residents? How are we going to find the sites to see and the things to do?

The flight would last about 6.5 hours reaching speeds in excess of 1022 kph (635 mph) with outside temperatures falling below -52 oC (-126 oF.) I was lucky enough to find myself cruising at about 10,000 m (37,000 ft.) in an exit (sortie) row. Hence the ride was quite roomy and comfortable. In addition, the food was incredible. This was no America West pita pocket! This was a full course banquet! Not only was it yummy, but there was enough to feed another 737 full of people. We started with a small bottle of champagne to celebrate the start of our journey. We shared this with Sylvian (that’s my ignorant American attempt at spelling the man’s name…), our French companion in the aisle seat. Sylvian was returning to France for some business. He and his wife are starting a small French Café in Clinton, New Jersey. “Interesting choice of locations, Sylvian”, I thought to myself. Nevertheless, he was returning to France to pick up some collectibles and decoratives for the new café. “Best of luck”, I offered, as the next wave of edibles approached on a squealing cart.

After the champagne, we were presented with a dinner tray that left nothing to the imagination. Complete with salad, slices of prosciutto, ham and salami, duck pate, pork loin with a side of rice, peas, and ham, cheese plate, mineral water, a carafe of red wine, and a roll. Oh, I almost forgot the cherry cheesecake. Yummy! I could hardly keep my eyes from slamming shut after such a wonderful (if plane food can be so) dinner. I managed to stay awake for bits and pieces of the movie “Nell.”

When I opened my eyes next, we were on final approach to Paris, France (Orly.) Words cannot describe the feelings I had at this point and time. Overwhelming feelings of excitement crept in. Or was it skepticism? Or was it hesitation? Or was it anxiety? See? Words can’t describe them! It just felt great.

As I ventured toward the baggage claim, I spoke with Franck Brice (Lehigh alum) who had also been on our flight from Newark. Franck, a native of the city, selflessly offered his advice on touring the metro area and most of all, getting out of the airport easily. Then he started off in his own direction enjoying a good solid laugh at us and the “predicament” (as he calls it) we got ourselves into. I would hardly call it a predicament.

The most overwhelming feeling of anxiety and trepidation was prevalent after slinging my brand new Gregory internal frame backpack onto my shoulders and heading….uh…..mmmmm….where? I was sure of at least two things we had to do before leaving the airport. First of all, it was necessary that I scrape the travel scum off the sides of my face, I thought I would need a trowel! Second, and most importantly, I had to call home to let everyone know we had landed safely and were having a good time without letting the fact that we were surrounded by foreign people in a foreign land, had no clue where we were going or where we would be sleeping that evening, and we had no French currency on hand at the time show in my voice. Now you would think calling home would be pretty simple, right? Guess again! Not in this story. But fortunately, while standing by the phone with seven weeks worth of stuff strapped to our backs looking as clueless as two Americans in Paris for the first time could appear, a saintly American mother of 5 approached us. Upon interrogation, we learned that she was heading back to Bermuda (how nice) and needed to dispose of some random French coins and a prepaid calling card with over 110 FF (over 25 USD) still on it! After the saintly mother of 5 finished sharing some travel advisories and personal stories, she vanished and we proceeded to call home with the divine card. I talked to Jenni…it was three in the morning at home. Meanwhile, it was rather early for us, around 9:00 AM and I was feeling rather jet lagged.

We headed for the Orly Airport bus only to be greeted by another friendly American girl named Lauralyn. She was struggling with a loosely packed external frame. I invited myself to lend a helping hand to this damsel in distress. Just imagine, in Paris for less than 1 hour and I am already meeting beautiful women! “Not so fast, buster!”, screamed a little voice in my head. She seemed like a very experienced traveler, so we took more advice from her and boarded the very same bus she did and made our way toward Invalides.

At Invalides, the last stop on this line, we disembarked and exchanged phone numbers with Lauralyn. Well, we didn’t exactly “exchange”, since Stacy nor I had a real phone number. Since Lauralyn is planning to be back in Paris for Bastille day, it was a cool idea that we got her number. Who knows if we would need a place to stay for the holiday? We unloaded our packs from the belly of the bus and started the trek across the Seine river to the right (north) bank where we had hoped to find the tourist office. After walking for a grueling 45 minutes, we spotted the tourist office at 127 Champs de Elysees. It is here where we booked ourselves at the Hotel de Industrie a Rue Gustave Goblier. For 244FF (about 29 USD) we got a nice room with a small shower and a double bed. This oh-so-low price also included a European breakfast each morning, which constituted a piece or two of French bread and a steamin’ hot cup of Parisian café. We climbed to room #20 on the 5th floor of this single * hotel, threw aside the gear, and rested for a while. It was about 1:00.

Later we awoke refreshed and ready for our first European meal. I started with a salade mixte and a carafe of red wine. The main course consisted of lamb steak, fries, and a baked potato accented with a chocolate mousse topped with slivered almonds for desert. Not the most ethnic of dishes for Paris other than the FRENCH fries and chocolate mousse, which was the most unbelievable chocolate mousse I had ever tasted, I might add. With a full gut, we were now ready to cruise the streets of Paris near our hotel. This section of the city was hardly a spectacle. Although well kept for a city of its proportions, the buildings in this section of Paris were graffiti-ridden eyesores and the streets were doted with homeless Parisians and gypsies. Our evening culminated with a tall glass of Pelforth Ale at La Chope Des Artistes which was just across and down the street (at the T) from our hotel. {Despite the fact that I am rewriting my log book written well over 14 months ago, I can remember this piano bar like I was there yesterday. delete this} It had an extremely cozy atmosphere glazed with a casual hint of cigarette smoke. Even though I had experienced Paris for less than one day and I knew no one here, I felt so at ease. Stacey and I shared stimulating conversation while listening to the energetic tunes of the pianist who closely resembled Vicki Neal’s friend, Philip. In addition to a splendid atmosphere and stimulating conversation, Pelforth was one of the smoothest Lagers I had tasted to date. Yummy.