€190

That’s how much I spent on 2 taxi rides yesterday…more about that in a minute.
I had a great time in Paris! It’s a fabulous town [for a visit], and the sites are really spectacular. No one can prepare you for the first time you see the Eiffel Tower—the bus I rode into town on literally gasped when we came over the hill and first saw it.
In light of the many, MANY adventures I had in Paris this weekend, I will be dedicating this week’s blogs to “PARIS: WEEKEND OF FANTASTICAL ADVENTURE”. We’ll start the first installment now.

ONE HUNDRED NINETY EURO. Not sounding hefty enough? Let me translate that into dollars: $254.60! In one day. On two cab rides. The story begins with RyanAir, exclusive carrier of catastrophe. RyanAir flies not into Charles De Gaulle but Beauvais, which is 45 miles outside the city. They bus you into and out of a downtown Metro station for the low low price of €13 each way. Come Sunday night, after I had grabbed my bag from my hostel, I shlepped over to the bus depot across town at about 8pm, planning on taking the hour-long bus ride and arriving 2hrs early at Beauvais for my 10:50pm flight. As I bought my bus ticket, here’s how the conversation went in broken Franglais:

Ticket Guy: Here is your ticket.

Me: Thanks. When does the bus leave?

Ticket Guy: Tonight?

Me: Yes.

Ticket Guy: Give me your ticket back.

…The last bus had left not 10 minutes before. And the worst part is I said “How do I get to the airport?” and he says “Taxi. One hundred twenty euro.” GASP!

So I headed to the nearest taxi queue and told the cabbie “Beauvais?” His eyes gleamed with money. I got in and tried to explain to him that I was late. As soon as I said the word “retard” (meaning late in French), the cabbie—and I don’t use this term lightly—floored it. In downtown Paris! I have never in my life been so close to shitting myself.

The ride took about an hour, during which time my French/Indian cabbie attempted verily to make conversation in Indian-accented French. Sometimes I understood, sometimes I didn’t, and though I answered a lot of his questions, a few times I had to admit defeat, saying “Desolee, je ne comprends pas” (Sorry, I don’t understand). It came to pass that I said this so often that when I began to say the phrase, he’d echo “Desolee!” and laugh and turn the radio on.

The radio ONLY played Boy George.

I did my best to look enthused when he’d turn the radio on; I did this to avoid the radio going off and the driver availing of yet another French pop quiz. The radio blared Do you really want to huuuurt meee? And I was slapping my knees and tapping my feet and rocking my head like Stevie Wonder in the back seat. But inevitably the radio always got turned off within minutes and we were back to talking about the war or the countryside or my sunburn or his favorite, how women must be married by 26 before they become “femmes vieilles” aka old women.

I mustered up all the French I had, all of which was acquired in a one semester course and therefore barely extends past “J’aime les croissants.” If only we had talked about croissants…

I got to Beauvais eventually, my head throbbing from all the French. I could literally feel the tiny French part of my brain swelling, pulsing against those other parts of my head that contain such useless knowledge as the MTV lineup and the lyrics to “Mambo Number Five”.

My plane was delayed which resulted in a €60 cab ride to my Dublin flat, which accounts for the rest of my day’s travel costs. All told, my cabfare was double the cost of my plane ticket, making Beauvais and Ryan Air THE WORST AIRPORT AND CARRIER IN THE WORLD. Lesson learned on flying cheap: you definitely get what you pay for.

Ah well. Don’t worry, it couldn’t cast a shadow on my weekend—Paris was still incredible.

And for those of you who are interested, I just got wind that we’ll be hearing back today or tomorrow about my visa! I feel a mini-stroke coming on—I better try and stay calm while I wait!!! :)

Have a great Monday!