The buildup lasted for twenty years before I climbed off the steps of the train. While I envisioned aromas of cappuccino and croissant would waft through my nostrils, what I got was raw cold and drizzly morning air. As I shivered outside in the long taxi line, I eagerly searched for a glimpse of familiar and famous architecture. But these surroundings consisted of a train station, a stairway leading to a subway station, and a view of old, cookie-cutter buildings and a cheap hotel.
I had arrived in Paris as part of my study abroad program, my trip to Europe, where I got to stay in a castle in Well, The Netherlands, to study art history.
During the most aggressive taxi drive of my life, the prospect of romancing the city finally surfaced when I caught a glimpse here and there of the Louvre, the Opera House, and most importantly — shopping at the Galeries Lafayette. Determined to keep my spirits high, I overlooked my alarmingly small hotel room with the low, sunken bed and dismissed the smell of cheap perfumed-powder permeating the air.
In my immediate attempt to embrace the culture, I booked a Parisian facial, massage, manicure, and pedicure. What I expected to be the best spa experience of my life turned out to be a one-woman show of slopping handfuls of various creams in circular motion on my travel-worn body. The clinician’s English consisted of yes or no to a few questions asked. The first question was if she could give me a French manicure. She said, “No.” The last question was if she took credit cards. She quickly answered, “Yes.” The one unusual aspect of my experience at this institute was lying down on a heated table during a dry pedicure — and having the hair waxed off my toes.
Overall, the City of Lights was too large for comfort. The streets were dirty, noisy, and filled with nasty Parisians. Everywhere I ventured, I got lost.
My intent was to go back again when my studies were complete, but this time to meet Andrew and begin our pseudo-honeymoon. In order to purchase my international train ticket out of The Netherlands, I had to take a bus ride to Njmegan Station, and then a train ride to Arnhem, the closest place I could purchase my ticket to Paris. While there, I noticed a Pizza Hut kiosk and I ordered an entire cheese pizza, since I hadn’t eaten anything remotely close to what I was used to in about a month. They also sold beer, so I bought a Heineken, thinking I could wait for my bus back to the Castle while enjoying my lunch. The pizza girl placed my beer in a brown paper bag and told me it would be okay to drink it outside, as long as I covered the can with the bag. I felt like a cheap drunk on the streets. But then as I sat on the bench eating my pizza, I smelled pot. Sitting next to me was a young man enjoying a toke. And I was worried about sipping beer.
My next visit out of the castle was to the neighboring town’s hot springs. My website development teacher offered three of us students a ride, so we went. Pools were covering a mountainous area, and with romance in the air, several couples were spotted making love in various nooks and crannies of the springs.
When my teacher announced he wanted to go to the sauna, we three girls followed, opened the door to a room of naked men, before we were run out by the loud, Dutch attendee. Our teacher had long since entered, and we realized upon our exit from the spa that we were kicked out because we had our bathing suits on. Strict rule. No clothes in the sauna.
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