Day 0: Pre-Bordeaux Notes

I was so excited on the flight over that I started manually writing journal entries at Heathrow airport. They're hardly relevant now in light of everything amazing/ridiculous/cold that has happened, but I amuse myself and am going to post them here all the same. So HAH. I am going to warn you that this is ridiculously long but I tried to label things accordingly so you can skip the boring parts.

Heathrow Airport, London, 1/5/2009, 11:00 AM

Try as I may, I will never be one of those women who waltz off airplanes looking like they just stepped out of a spa, completely fabulous and calm. Me? I'm always carrying too many too heavy bags, heaving with effort as I drag monstrous suitcases through terminals and escalators. My Cal sweatshirt bunched in the most unflattering way possible around my waist, I scan departure screens nervously and push rogue strands of hair off a panicked face. It doesn't matter so much in the States, where I'm up against overweight and sunburned countrymen. But here at Heathrow I look much too American for my liking. Which is why I just changed into Ralph Lauren in the airport bathroom. I mean...

It doesn't help that every time I fly, something goes wrong. It's cute that you think I'm exaggerating, but any of my friends will tell you I'm an airborne curse [edit: this was written before I learned of the travel catastrophe of my fellow Americans who were stuck in Paris overnight and lost their luggage]. Take today, for example. My flight to London was delayed for half an hour. No biggie, except that I just missed my connecting flight to Paris. Which means I missed my connecting TGV to Bordeaux. AWESOME. The shit hit the fan when I heard the pilot's ominous voice upon landing in Heathrow - "We're quite a ways from the terminal, so we're going to exit the aircraft from stairs and take shuttles to the airport." His charming British accent fails to mask that he's the harbringer of doom.

So here I am, sitting in Heathrow across from the duty free shop (always a bad idea - just bought a box of unaffordable designer chocolates), stranded as usual.

On the plus side, I got a free long-distance call to France. Two British Airways agents told me I had to call my Bordeaux host family from a payphone, which I was having none of. It may have taken a little persistence (and okay, a little pouting and eyelash batting) but finally an agent used his phone to dial for me (I did have to bust out my Rick Steves Best of Europe guide to look up the country codes though - embarassing).

Speaking of which, I finally spoke to my host mom on the phone! It was the first time I had a conversation entirely in French with a stranger. Thank the lord she's a teacher because she's speaks really slowly and clearly. I can't wait to meet her.

P.S. Heathrow's terminal 5 is FAWESOME. Designer stores up the wazoo. They have a cool system where you wait in "waiting areas" instead of directly at the gate. Much more fun this way, since you're staring at handbags you can't afford.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France, 1/5/2009, 3:00 PM

Just had my first taste of infamous French bureaucracy. To save money, I decided to take the TGV from Paris to Bordeaux and bought my ticket online ahead of time. But they don't give you a printable ticket - you still have to go to the ticket counter to pick it up. I trekked for like a mile to the TGV station in the airport, and now am faced with a line that is so long it wraps around itself 4 times. No one in line knows what's going on - there are no signs or helpful representatives, and 3 of the 5 registers are closed. I'm happy for you that you get a 2 hour lunch break, BUT MY TRAIN LEAVES IN 10 MINUTES AND I STILL DON'T HAVE A TICKET, YOU FUCKERS. I finally get to the front of the line and the agent tells me I have to pay for a new ticket because I missed my train. Um, the reason I bought my ticket online is so I wouldn't have to deal with this crap. Tant pis - too bad.

After shoving over 72 Euros with a complete sense of resignation, I make my way to the platform where a man in a funny blue hat tells me I have to make my way to car J. Except in French, J is pronounced like G and G is pronounced like J, so in a moment of anglophonic weakness I start getting on the G car until I finally figure out what's going on and have to sprint to the back of the platform. Always fun.

Now I am sailing through the French countryside on the TGV and dusk is falling, and it's beautiful. Everything is blanketed in snow, tractors parked forlornly and prim rows of fir trees. It was snowing when I landed in Paris and I couldn't stop smiling - snow! And in Paris! On a grassy patch between runways there was a rabbit hopping around.

French strangers I've encountered have been surprisingly kind of forgiving of my massacring their language, like when I kept asking "Où est la guère?" (Where is the war?) instead of "Où est la gare?" (Where is the train station?)

I will be at Bordeaux in 2 hours - no idea what to expect.