Day 206 through 210

Planes, Trains and Automobiles . . . Surviving the least Magical Place on Earth.

With the Jack Butler Hotel at maximum capacity, I find myself a bit pressed for time to continue with my usual academic pursuits.  That being said, we are turning in a bit earlier than usual this evening, so I feel I must jot something down on paper before I lose track of the mis-adventures that have filled the past week of our lives.  Our guests arrived a week ago Friday, and due to a slight miscalculation on our part, were forced to ignore their jet lag in favor of a 3 hour train ride to Paris that same evening.  I knew ahead of time that our travels would take us into the wee hours of the evening, but I didn’t anticipate that we would be dragging our luggage through a corn field at 2 a.m.  The TGV ride felt a bit lengthy, but everyone survived.  A whole lot of responsibility rested squarely on my shoulders as the expedition leader for our merry band of hillbillies.  I am the only one with any real world experience with Paris public transit and the maze of tunnels makes for indigestion for even the hardiest traveler.  Once off of the high speed train (approx. 190 mph top speed), we were forced into the tunnels for a fragrant ride on the Metro.  Like any subway, it has a certain melange of body odor, urine and petrol that can’t be captured by mere description.  Once through the maze of metro stops, we were to board a regional train for what I had measured as the final leg of the journey to our hotel situated very close the gates of Disneyland.  Somewhere along the way, the wife and I realized that my knowledge of the appropriate train stops was not going to get us from train depot to the hotel.  A quick call to the hotel confirmed that we would need to catch a bus from the train depot to hotel.  Now, this is a tourist hotspot, so there are trams that run at regular intervals from all nearby hotels to the gates of the park which is located right across from the train station.  We, however, had arrived a bit late for such a tram, so we would need to ride a city bus.  It was a one shot deal.  We arrived on the train with just enough time to make the last bus for the evening.  Boarding the bus, we knew that it would not shuttle us directly to the hotel, so we (or I) were/was forced to make a snap decision as to which bus stop we would abandon our ride in favor of a short walk on foot.  With very dimly lit stops and not a clue in hell where our hotel actually was, I went with my gut and we jumped from the bus at what turned out to be an inopportune moment.  I am still convinced that this bus was never actually going to get us anywhere near our hotel, but after dragging our bags through some darkened suburban streets, it was clear we were truly lost.  Arriving at a cross-roads of the paths to Snud and to Queast, it was clear that our hotel was nowhere in sight.  Admittedly, our vantage point was somewhat hindered by the rows of corn that we had encountered along the way.  We inquired with the scarecrow as to which way to Oz, but he too seemed as clueless as we were as to our current location.

Before bedding down for the night on a nearby park bench, we decided it might be prudent to give the hotel one last ring to see if they could fetch us a cab.  The answer was a bit disheartening.  No cabs.  Fortunately, the nice folks at our hotel offered to come pick us up in one of the hotel vehicles.  Now for the hard part.  Where exactly were we?  The wife and I ran this way and that in an effort to locate a discernable land mark.  Indicating that we were in the corn field was clearly not going to be enough for their GPS.  We did finally find a street name or two and within a few minutes a very nice woman pulled up to the curb and offered us the ride we so desperately needed.  Very tired and giggling like school girls at the events of the evening, we entered the hotel lobby.  The hotel was of the resort variety and was as kid friendly as could be.  As we checked in, we decided that perhaps the family suite that we had booked would be too cozy for the 6 of us, so we attempted to switch to two separate rooms.  The attendant assured us that the suite had separate rooms, so in the spirit of the evening, we kept our original accommodations.  Once we arrived at our room, we were face to face with one of the most unique hotel experiences I have ever encountered.  The room looked something akin to that of the 7 dwarves.  I haven’t seen that many beds lined up in a row before and if my wife was “Sleepy”, then I must surely have been “Dopey”.  Too tired to worry with the logistics, we decided to check the second room, assuming that it would serve as a means to let the grandparent types have a little privacy from the youngsters.  As it would turn out, it was the youngsters that would have their privacy as the second room contained bunk beds.  With all adults picking from single beds lined up in a row, I realized I failed to pack my crew anything to sleep in except for my eldest son, whom I outfitted with several pairs of athletic shorts.  The youngest would wear his older brother’s shorts or none at all.  Not a big deal.  With all the adults in one room, however, underpants for the wife and I seemed a bit too risqué.  I opted for my swimming trunks and the wife slept in her jeans.

Day two would be spent on a descent into parental hell.  Disneyland is a paradise to none.  The place was teaming with tourists and it would take most of the day just to ride a single ride.  The ride was enjoyable, but the remainder of the day was an absolute nightmare made even less tolerable at the hands of a very fussy 3 year old.  With spirits at low ebb, we decided to drown our sorrows with a liberal application of 1664 (a tolerable French beer).  Suddenly, the 3 year old seemed less demanding and the crowds began to clear.  Neither was true in actuality, but beer goggles can be utilized for more than just bedding down with an ugly gal at the end of the evening.  After an afternoon with Mickey and the gang, we decided to grab a bite to eat before heading back to the hotel.  A few more 1664s and an edible meal at a chain restaurant seemed to be an appropriate way to end our day.  We were even able to sweet talk one of our servers into some souvenir beer glasses.  Not for sale, but not necessarily unavailable either.  Back at the hotel, it was decided that we should keep the party rolling and find a nearby market to obtain additional adult grain beverages at a little more reasonable price.  The wife had the front desk call a cab for Grandpa and I, and soon we were off to a nearby “market” to obtain some liquid refreshments.  The nearby “market” turned out to be a convenience store that didn’t sell alcohol after 6 p.m.  That was a downer, but not nearly as big a problem as the fact that we now had no way back to our hotel.  Upon dropping us off at said convenience store, the cabby asked how long we would be and indicated that he would be right back.  He fled the parking lot atop squealing tires and indicated that he had another faire to handle before he would return for us.  Return he did not, and once again we were on foot.  This time, I had a rough idea what direction to head, so we set out through the woods nearby.  After a “Frogger” maneuver across a busy highway and a scramble up a sizable embankment and through some underbrush, we were once again head high in a corn field.  At least it was familiar territory.  Soon enough we found the main road and started toward the hotel a mile or two away.  As luck would have it, we were spotted by our wayward cabbie and he circled back for us to finish the job he had started.  Dropping us at the door to the hotel, he settled for a discounted faire, but not without an editorial comment or two.  Too tired for a physical altercation, we let that one go.  Back in my swim trunks, it was time for bed.

Day three required additional rail travel as we made our way into Paris proper to see the sights.  It ended up a marvelous day full of the usual highlights and a negotiation or two with local street vendors.  With some art purchased and some sights observed, it was time to call our trip complete.  Once more to hotel for a final night’s sleep before our Boxcar Willie caravan back home.  It is of some interest to the wife and I that our French has come a long way and communication on a survival level seems quite functional.  It is however a hollow victory, for it seems that in our new found comfort level we were able to recognize that we actually heard more English spoken over the course of the day than we had heard French.  It seems as though in the largest city, the mother tongue has all but been abandoned.

We would begin day four in a leisurely fashion as our train for home would not leave until later in the afternoon.  The three year old’s ill temper would be forgiven a bit as it was realized that he had infact taken ill in the middle of the night and we would once again put the French healthcare system to the test.  The poor little fella was miserable with fever and having inquired at the front desk if they had any Tylenol type product, the response was quick and effective.  They did not have anything for his illness, but immediately called a doctor who was at our room within the hour to exam our youngest.  Those of us that had slept in a bit, hid in our underpants in the bathroom and adjoining bedroom until the room service medical exam could be completed.  Inside of an hour, our youngest had been examined and prescriptions had been dispensed.  Again, the healthcare system here does not fail to amaze.  A bit of swimming for the eldest before packing and soon we were on our way.  Through the maze of RER and Metro we flew with the greatest of easy.  Upon boarding the TGV, however, we ran into a bit of a snag.  It appeared as though our seats had been double booked and the competitors had beaten us to our seats.  With some head scratching and intense debate, I began to have a sinking feeling.  My wife left the train in an effort to find answers.  The last thing I asked her before she left was if our tickets were for the correct day.  Upon her return the answer crystalized.  I was correct.  The wife had booked the tickets for the following day.  Now, when faced with such adversity, you can tuck your tail between your legs, or you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make something happen.  My choice is the latter.  We went to see if the tickets could be changed.  Non-refundable I am sad to say.  At the ticket booth, it was apparent that return tickets on the next train would be costly.  Fuck it, I have driven it once before and I can certainly do it again.  Arriving at the Europcar counter, the news wasn’t good.  Renting a vehicle that would carry 6 passengers put a mileage restriction on the transaction that cause a fearful increase in price.  New train tickets would be the lesser of two evils.  With new tickets in hand, we waited for an hour or so and boarded the new train.  Fortunately for us, we were seated near the café car and 1664’d our way back home.

Back at our hometown rail station, we faced yet another problem.  Where in the hell did we park the freaking car?  Leaving our crew in front of the rail station, the wife and I retraced our steps and after a half hour or so, we found our car parked where we had left it . . . short term parking.  I won’t tell you what the bill for that was, but let’s just say that I pray that the children are smart enough to get scholarships to college.  And so ends our weekender to Paris.  Shaken but not stirred.  I will do my best in the next day or so to get back up to date.  For now, we are recovering from just a bit of Train Lag, but its nothing an ice cold 1664 can’t cure.  Until next time.  R.