Day 1: April 21/22, En Route

It has begun.

[Quick addendum: I haven't had a block of internet time until now, so I think I will continually be behind. Look for several more posts over the next couple of days, though.]

I am writing while 41,000 feet over the Atlantic. The trip has already been interesting.

This is primarily because we are flying first class. Yes, that is correct. We’re flying on frequent flyer miles that my dad built up, and we ended up flying business/first class. Though our tickets are through Continental, we’re flying Air France to Paris.

We arrived three hours early for the international departure just to be safe. We were at the gate 15 minutes after we arrived because the terminal was deserted. The Air France people at check-in said the flight wasn’t full, and they were understating it. I overheard a lady telling someone else that most Europe-bound flights leave in the afternoon so as to arrive at their destination in the morning local time. Ours arrives at 3pm local time.

Our tickets gained us access to AF’s first class lounge. I wasn’t sure at first if they had opened it to everyone because the crowd wasn’t what I expected. (Then again, I shouldn’t be talking because I doubt anyone was expecting to see me.) I could point out two four stereotypical businessmen/women, two probably traveling for themselves, and then the rest I couldn’t guess. Two guys flying together were mid-20’s and almost had a high-class hip-hop look – flat-brimmed ball caps, some stylish stubble, solid white bug-eyed sunglasses, etc, and they had the mannerisms to match. They were in the kitchen area downing Bud Lights and rating the girls on some TV show that was on. One had a guitar. Another pair looked like over-the-hill biker-gang material – one had a pony tail down to his waist that matched his salt/pepper beard and a black Harley-Davidson shirt. As we were all walking out I heard them talking about what size rims they had on vehicles.

In hindsight, flying first class on an international flight was probably a dumb idea. Our flight back (which is economy) will be that much harder. My first thought onboard was an “oh no” that I had a seat against a front bulkhead. But wait, it doesn’t matter in first class! The seats are about as nice as you would expect. They don’t fully recline flat, but almost. The downside is that there is no under-seat storage space because the seats are mechanical, so in one sense there is less usable space. You get noise-canceling headphones. Air France has a nifty camera set up in the nose so you get a pilot’s-eye view out front if you want it. Another looks down on the landscape, but from 41,000 ft over the Atlantic it’s not particularly interesting.

After dinner people kicked back and went to sleep. The seats mean you can sleep much better, but a side consequence is that after a while you could begin to faintly hear a mellifluous choir of snores over the ambient noise.

Random notes: One thing I failed to mention is that Qantas gives out something at the beginning of its flights with a timeline of service – when you’ll get dinner, breakfast, snacks, etc. It was really nice because you weren’t wondering if you should go to sleep and miss a meal, start a movie and then be interrupted by cabin service, etc. Also, I was reading an International Herald Tribune and noticed an ad announcing seven winners of an environmental award. One of the winners was Helen Clark, Prime Minister of New Zealand. As I discussed in my NZ postings, she has done a lot to reduce CO2 and other emissions in NZ, but many of them are “paper gains” – for example, when they realized they can’t meet their Kyoto goals, Clark passed a law that heavily penalizes forestry companies from logging trees they planted a few years earlier. These trees offset CO2 emissions on paper, so the net effect is that Helen Clark looks good while an entire (and substantial) industry takes a big hit and CO2 emissions aren’t actually reduced.

[The following was written on our “French” Day 1 after our arrival.]

Two days before we left we got an urgent e-mail saying the apartment we had rented for the week was being pulled out from under us. It was cheaper to do an apartment than hostels for the week, so we had rented one from an apartment broker of sorts. If people are gone on vacation they can put their apartment up for lease through this guy. Someone had reneged, so he offered us a different apartment. When we arrived there was a Ukranian lady waiting for us; I gathered she was the maid. The apartment has two very small bedrooms and a slightly larger room that serves as a family room. The kitchen is a tiny galley-type affair. The bathroom has a tub with a removable shower nozzle, but there is no shower curtain. Based on the modern art, stacks of Elle magazines, books of professional photographs from several photographers, and the selection of books and CDs present I guessed that the resident did something with art and worked for Elle. Overall the apartment was furnished decently, but not fancily. Most of the furniture is old but quite sufficient. I don’t know my modern art too well, but her selections are conservatively colored and handsomely reserved. Still not my style, but she did a good job picking modern art that gives the place a modern-day touch without clashing with the old furniture. We met Geraldine, our “host,” the first night. She came over so we could pay her, but we stayed for a while and talked a lot (in a good way.) She’s probably in her late 30’s or early 40’s, about 5’10”, has a daughter (but no trace of a man), and came into the apartment with the black pants and jacket so common among Parisians along with the helmet and gloves of a scooter ride. She was very friendly/helpful and her English was pretty good, though her accent made things hard at times and she sometimes had to search for words (though she knew her fair share of lingo and used the phrase “I’m a little blond when it comes to computers”). She described herself as a “producer,” but from her description she is basically a coordinator for photo-shoots. She sets times/places, gets the photographer/makeup artist, etc., and who knows what else. I’m assuming a magazine or whoever else uses the photos is the one that hires her – it didn’t seem that she was tied to Elle. She said she usually eats out (I would, too, if I had that kitchen and not enough space for a dining table) and that her job has her working long hours. I gathered that her daughter is in boarding school somewhere. I couldn’t quite figure out why we are staying in her apartment while she’s in town, but I gathered that she is staying at her sister’s house (who is currently on vacation in the Maldives) while we stay here. Fine by me.

She said we should help ourselves to whatever we find (spices, washing machine, etc.). It was a nice gesture, but I think she had already thought everything through and knew it had little downside. If you rent out the apartment that you live in, you have to assume that your residents will go poking around in your medicine cabinet, so to speak. You also have to assume that some residents are going to use your stuff anyway and you don’t lose anything by telling them to do so, and the residents who wouldn’t otherwise use your stuff are also the people who will replace it and your gesture gains a lot of goodwill.

Our view is great. It is a residential neighborhood only a few blocks away from Sacre Coeur, a cathedral whose spire I can see out my window. Since we’re on a hill, I can also see out across a lot of the town (though the view is all North, away from the Eiffel Tower or the Seine).

Reese, if you’re reading this you should know that Geraldine has the same square IKEA lamps in her apartment that you do. Apparently you have good taste.