Graduating Paris

Hold it quick boys, this one is hot of the presses: the story of a completely retarded and frustrating afternoon in Paris.

The day starts out well enough, I bid my dear companions Dustin, Elan, and Chris goodbye, and help them take their over-packed luggage to the train station. After that it's off to Gare Montparnasse to buy train tickets. This station is world-famous for a picture taken of it during the early 19th century, one where a steam engine appears to have crashed through the window. This of course from the pre-C.T.A. era, when such massive derailments were uncommon.

In any event, I manage to finish making plans for my departure from Paris, which includes a three city swing in four days through Strasbourg, Dijon, and Lyon, before departing for Madrid to meet my parents and go to my dad's conference in Haca. But by the time I finish making arrangements it's already 2:45. I'd been planning for a week to go to a concert in which my friend Marie was singing on Sunday, and I knew it was in the late afternoon. I had thought it was at 4:30 in the afternoon, or 16 hours and half. In fact, it was at 15 hours and a half, which is actually 3:30. Translation: I was already probably running late. I quickly check the map for 17 place de la Republic.

Google Maps, in his infinite, but occasionally dense, wisdom, immediately zoomed in on the famous Place de la Republic, which is in the heart of Paris's very chic northeast side. In fact, I had been many, many times to this area of Paris so knew instantly how to get there. I hurtled out the door, knowing that if I could perform the miracle of getting my out-of-shape body to the RER station in two minutes, he could perform the miracle of getting it anywhere in the city in the nick of time.

The guilt-anxiety that always accompanies tardiness begins to nag me. Like a great turtle battling against a small Italian plumber, I feel myself being picked to shreds by a thousand little bites, and though I try to smack him with that great ponderous expanse of my massive, will, I cannot find any success. I arrive at the massive Chatlet stop of the RER and transfer over to the brown line.

The brown line moves fast and it becomes apparent that I'm going to be 5 to 10 minutes early. Or as we call it in France, fashionably early. I mount the stairs, feeling excited at the prospect of having cheated lateness yet again, and am suddenly in the midst of the place of the Republic.

I look around for a church, but can't find anything. The plaza is enormous, with trees blocking the view to the other side, so probably it's somewhere to be found. I look for a logical starting place, but am foiled because, as is common in Paris, it's totally unclear what number any building has, and also whether the numbers are increasing or decreasing in any particular direction. I decide to make a grand tour, going around in a circle until I find it.

I quicken my steps as a pass #26. The numbers are decreasing, I should be coming up to it, but something begins to tug at me. Shouldn't it look like there's a church here, if there is in fact a church here? Finally I confront face to face the much-sought after #17 Place de la Republic. I scan the surface of the building. It doesn't look like a church. I approach the door. It doesn't look like a church. I read the inscription on the front of the door. "Jean Pierre Marion - Dentist."

Unless Marie is performing gregorian chant in a dentist office closed on Sundays, something has gone terribly wrong. And then it occurs to me: on the original invitation, underneath the address, #17 place de La republic, had been a cryptic word I had thought nothing of: Vanuv.

Vanuv. Vanuv. Wait, no, not Vanuv. Maybe it was Vanive. Or Vanone? Shit, it was Va- something. I didn't know what that name was supposed to signify, it hadn't meant anything to me when I saw it.

Could it be that there is a second Place de la Republic in Paris? Marie didn't say the church was outside of Paris, wouldn't she have said something if it was? But how could there be two Places of the Republic in Paris . . . I mean, how would the postman know which one to take the letter to? I don't know, retorted a voice in the back of the head, how the hell would an airport work if there aren't any exits for non-E.U. citizens? Probably what happened is one day two hundred years ago some jackass defaced all the street signs in some crappy cartier on the West side of town, ironically changing the street name from "Rue des Merde-Lanceurs," or whatever it was, to "Place de La Republic." Of course what must have happened then is that the simian inhabitants probably took a liking to the name and ever since sardonically called their street "Place de la Republic." The rest of Paris, not wanting to face the wrath of the Merde-Lanceurs, agreed to let the name go.

True histories aside, I had an enormous problem. I finally decide that probably that Va word indicated a metro stop, so went back down into the metro to examine the map. Unfortunately, the map I was presented with didn't have a listing of the names of all stations with their coordinates, so after spending five minutes looking in vain, I decided to go find another map. The easiest way to find one was to go back into the metro. I have unlimited use of the metro in Paris with my card, so it was no problem for me to go through the turn-style.

I go in, find a proper map, and look for the proper place. Sure enough I find something called Vavin, and it's the only stop with a Va name. But, as I look at the map of what's around the station, I realize that there aren't any churches listed near it. I feel indecisive, should I take the train and see what's there, or should I find another solution? All this while I roll into my fifteenth minute of being late.

In times of indecision, it helps to be a master of Good Policy. What is the proper policy for this situation? I check my policy book, and find the following entry:

Chapter ?: Being Lost

RULE #1: Rule number one of not knowing where you're going is to not go anywhere until you know where you're going. Chances are, if you don't know where you're going, you're going to go in the wrong direction.

Sound advice. But how to find out more definitively where I was going? Perhaps to ask someone? If the church was rather small, as was likely, it would only be known to people in the neighborhood. Maybe someone would have a book? Marie carries a book that lists all the streets in Paris, that would certainly be helpful.

I look around for someone holding such a book. No one shows up. I wait some more. No book. This is horrible. I'm just getting later and later. There's no telling when this guy with a book is going to show up. I wish I had someone to argue with; that might kill the time. As I see a homeless man being dragged along the train tracks by a portly slave-driver, I think to myself: Fuck this shit, I'm getting out of here; I'm not the kind of guy that waits for Godot, I'm the type that finds him.

I hurtle up the stairs three at a time. As I exit the station, I see an information desk.

Yes.
Information.
That's exactly what I need.
I'm looking for a place, I don't know where it is.
These people are paid to give me information about places I want to go.

I run over to the desk, cutting off an annoyed Frenchman in the process, and say breathlessly

"Madam, il faut que tu m'aides. Je suis deja tres tard pour un chance que je ne vais jamais avoir encore."

The woman is middle-aged, over-weight, and her uniform is poorly tucked-in. Her green blazzer is unbuttoned. She has three rings on various fingers on her right hand. She stares at me through her-horn rimmed glasses while chewing gum impassively. Somehow there is something overwhelming frog-like about her demeanor. I decide to press on.

"Sayez-vous ou est L'Eglise de Saint Remy?"

She pouts her lips,

"L'Eglise?" Apparently I had accented the word incorrectly.

"Oui, oui, L'Eglise. Comme une cathedral, mais pas grande."

She turns to her neighbor, "Tu as entendu de l'eglise de Saint Remy?"

The other worker doesn't respond. She humphs, or whatever the French do instead of humphing. She types something into her computer and clicks. It seems that she is searching something. I tap my foot impatiently, and tell myself things are moving. The woman clears her throat. She begins banging her mouse on the mouse-pad, and moving her pudgy, over-ringed hand in a circular motion.

Finally she says, "Non, c'est pas Saint Remy. C'est Saint Marie."
"Quoi?"
"Saint Remy, il n'existe pas. Tu veux Saint Marie."
"Non, je sais il existe. Saint Remy."

She wags her head disagreeing, and, to prove her point, turns her computer screen around to show some website that has responded to her search for "Saint Remy" with "Saint Marie." Now, rather than taking the time to explain to her, probably in broken French, why she has not in fact proved to me that there is no Saint Remy in Paris, I say merci and au revoir, and head for the surface.

Once there I begin searching for wireless internet using my iPod touch. This type of maneauveur had a proven track-record: there is a lot of free internet in Paris, and I had already used my iPod to solve a worse case of confusion earlier in my trip. The strongest internet was coming from an American hotel on the Place de la Republic, so I head towards it. Normally this is a screw, because they let you connect to the wifi for free, but then make you pay to get internet. But at this point I was so at my wits end that I thought, I'll pay the three Euro, it'll be worth it.

As I wander into the Hotel looking for the heart of the signal, I suddenly stumble upon the Hotel Business Center. Sure enough, the computers require no login, so I am on the internet checking my email within seconds. I check the email, one eye over my shoulder, looking for the guards hired explicitly to stop someone from coming off the street to use the internet. Fortunately, no one bothers me.

I query my dear Google Map again, this type search for Eglise St. Remy and "Vanves." What turns up is a church at #17 place de la Republic, in a Banlieu just outside the Periphery of Paris on the south side of town. In fact, it is two train stops and a short tram ride away from my house. Brilliant, I thought. Now I'm completely on the other side of town, heading to some god-foresaken suburb of the city of Paris, that it takes 3 transfers to get to. It's going to take me fifty minutes to get there, and Marie's performance will probably be over.

Well, tough shit happens, especially to tough shits like me, the question now was how to toughen out of this miserable, miserable shit. The ceremony had probably already started, I wouldn't even necessarily make the middle, but maybe I could get to the church before its all-important end. I fly back to the train station, and throw myself through the turnstyle. It doesn't turn. To prevent free riders, you can only scan once at the same station every hour. I push forward, hoping the metal bars, and force my conveniently slim frame through the metal guard-door. I run down the stairs, and catch the already waiting train.

I realize as I'm riding the train that I'm already sweating like a hot pig and probably look like red-faced crap. Which is another way of saying that I had nothing to lose by running through the train station. At Chatelet, I run out of the train and up the stairs before anyone else. Then I get to the moving walkway that connects the Brown line with everything else. I ride it for a little bit, staring straight ahead as someone who looks like Mike Nichols films me with a camcorder. Soon it becomes apparent that the lollygaggers are in control of this walkway, so I decide to run on the side. I take wonderful, big strides. I was a track star in college you know. As I continue to run through the station, some Jamaican guy sings a Raggae cover of "Heres to You Mrs. Robinson."

I brush aside some 70 year old man too firmly, say pardon, and don't see what happens. I get to the train I need, and see that the train is coming in two minutes. Did I really need to push the old guy? No. And now I see him walking up to me, and he looks at me in the eyes accusingly. I blink and turn around.

I completely zone out during the train ride, I'm not thinking about anything except "Gotta get there, gotta get there." I do my second transfer at a run, and take the third leg of my route in stride. I get out of the subway in the Banlieu, expect the equivalent of Austin or old Cabrini Green, instead find some place so hoity-toity it makes Wheaton look rinky-dink. I find the street I need to take, and run 4 great city blocks. Running. Running. Finally I see the church before me.

I run up to it. It's locked. I go to the other entrance. It's locked. Shit. I look some more around the back and spot a fire-escape. I grab it with one hand and pull myself up. I find myself on a balcony, with a door adjoining it. I open it.

I find myself in a dark room, I inch forward. I see a plexiglass window, and go over to it. Before my eye is a group of young women. And they're all: singing! Singing! Yes, I'm still on time! I look around this room for a way down. There is none. The only way out is the way I came in. I can't get into the church, there's no way Marie will know that I came!

Unless . . . somehow maybe I can get her attention? I start banging on the window:

"Marie! Marie!"

Suddenly everyone stops singing, they all turn around and look at my sweaty form banging on the plexiglass window in a room high above the pews. They all begin shouting at me. I can't really make out the words, but I think it roughly translates to something like, "Get down from there you American idiot!"

I look for Marie, what's she doing? She's yelling at me to get out of here, they've called the cops. Fuck, I run out of the Church, I can see in the distance cops swerving towards the church. I look to my left. Nothing. I look to my right. A yellow bus. Quick, I hop onto the yellow bus, run to the back, see the mob and the cops through the rear window as we slowly pull away. I turn back, a great big grin on my face.

A grin which slowly fades.