Sunday, May 24, 2009

Who the heck am I?

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a long time, along with “what am I doing with my life?” And I found myself wondering again as I stood on the metro the other day and looked down at my strappy eco-friendly hiking-happy sandals, green cargo pants, long white linen tunic, bold African printed hobo bag, and henna-ed hands.

I am not the person I was two years ago. Not even one year ago.

Knowing that seems to bring on a sense of…release. Unlatched from the entrapments of a previously narrowly confined life. I don’t look back with spite, but rather with amusement at the long, windy path. I’ve become stronger on my own, more developed in character, broader in horizons, more open in thought, and much more confident and comfortable with myself.

The details of my chosen path don’t need to be specifically divulged at this time, but I do know that I’m very happy with the person I’ve become and that while I’m probably less sure than ever of where I’m going or what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Probable lack of self-esteem aside, I am confident that as I make decisions and learn to better follow my heart, I’ll end up in a place I’m happy with. This might sound overly optimistic, I tend to have an overly optimistic view of the world in general (due to general inclinations towards optimism, not so much naivety, if anything, I become more optimistic the more I learn about the world), but judging from the path I’ve taken, one I never would of fathomed I would take, it seems to be working for me so far. We’ll see where I end up, but for now, I’m enjoying the journey.

Provence

We actually woke up before 9am yesterday and headed out to Aix-en-Provence for market day. I was more than a little excited since if there was any part of France I’ve been absolutely dying to see, it’s Provence. Aix was certainly much different than I expected, but was really truly enjoyable nonetheless. It’s not a tiny Provencal town by any means, but it quaint nonetheless. Sandra and I were shocked to find Hermes, Longchamp, and other upper crust designer stores lining the narrow and winding streets. It certainly provided a contrast to the village feel of the huge flea and produce market. The market went on for several blocks and was absolutely overflowing with sausages, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, honey, bread, flowers…it was spectacular to meander under the colorful umbrellas and sample all sorts of goodies. The flea market was unexpectedly impressive as well, I was anticipating junky random nick-nacks that no one needed and cheap clothes, instead I found racks stuffed with pretty summer dresses, leather shoes, an array of tunics and blouses, and fabulous hand crafted jewelry.

After the market, we caught the train to Arles, famous as one of Van Gogh’s main haunts. Apparently he painted more than 200 canvases of the city and I was itching to see the real thing. Quite honestly, we didn’t find much. Arles is about half the size of Aix and aside from a humongous Asian tour group, pretty much seem to be locally dominated, which was….refreshing. There is supposedly a “Van Gogh trail” but all we found were a few markers in the sidewalk pointing in vague directions with no definite destinations. We did spot where he painted “Starry night over the Rhone” which was pretty neat for an art nerd like myself.

I only sort of love Marseille

I really loved Barcelona, the town area we were in felt really safe to me and I loved the bright, bold vibe of the local culture. Marseille, to me, has been big, dirty, and a monotone of grey buildings. Sandra, on the other hand, didn’t seem to enjoy Barcelona as much and apparently didn’t feel safe the entire time. Whereas, she is absolutely LOVING Marseille, feels right at home, and perfectly safe. It’s interesting. I spent a bit of time trying to figure out what made the difference, and wasn’t really able to pin point it, but Sandra losing her passport within our first hour in Barcelona was a huge stressor and she admits it biasing her against the safety of the city. Additionally, Marseille is filled with a incredible mix of people from all over the world, especially Africa. I can see hints of the “whatever man” attitude carried over, which creates a really fascinating and unique local culture of North meets South, but nonetheless, I think because I can see that I’m a little more apprehensive. Sandra has remarked on not noticing that so much, but remarked that she was apprehensive in Barcelona because she can see into and understand the Hispanic culture more clearly than I, and thus could see the danger spots more clearly. I guess the reverse is true for me here in Marseille.

Regardless, it is a fascinating city with a truly unique atmosphere, bustling with people from all walks of life. Arab and African Muslims walk side by side on the street, Moroccan restaurants stand next door to Irish pubs, and you never seem to hear the same language twice walking around. And all of this is superimposed over the framework of a French city, yet stands somewhat delocalized from the typical French culture.

The nightlife offers pretty much anything your heart desires from pubs, bars, hookah, clubs, salsa, disco…literally, anything. During the day the tourists flock to the beaches, which are pebbly but the Mediterranean waters are an intensely amazing share of blue, which stands out especially against the grey mountains in the background.

I love Barcelona

Granted, we didn’t get to see that much of the actual city other than the major architectural landmarks (I love travelling with a bunch of architecture students who drool over scale models and can match architects to buildings better than I can political leaders to countries). The town area where our hostel was, was absolutely adorable and great for wandering. Park Guell was also really nearby, although the main entrance was closed so we pretty literally had to climb a mountain to sneak in the back, but it was a really neat experience. I’ve got a lot of respect for Gaudi and his daring to dream and imagine and see the world as he saw it, what a unique perspective the man must have had to look at a space and turn it into what he did.
We were in a group of 7, and it really was a great group of kids. Although I didn’t really have time to think about it, I guess there was room for concern about feeling like a 7th wheel hanging out with a bunch of kids that have been through the stress of studio together for two years, but quite honestly, I didn’t feel like an outsider at all. And thankfully, others in the group remarked on how well I just blended right into the group as well. There certainly were dynamics within the group, which was actually nice because it was big enough that we could get space from parts of the group if we needed, but small enough that we could also all feel united. I’m really grateful that I was able to mesh so well, I suppose I don’t care so much about feeling like an outsider (although I certainly don’t enjoy it, especially with my general yearning for a sense of belonging) but mostly I’m glad it wasn’t awkward for the other kids and that they were able to enjoy having me around. I really miss them! It seriously sucks to meet cool new people and have them disappear out of your life so quickly, I’ll have to make sure to drop by studio sometime when I next visit their campus.
As a whole, the city was great. I love the gypsy vibe, the bright colors, and bold designs. The sun was an overly welcome reprieve after rainy and dreary Paris. The people were friendlier and more welcoming as well. It was a bit frustrating for me because I don’t speak a word of Spanish, let alone Catalan so I was completely incapable of talking to people, which was frustrating, but luckily we had three Spanish speakers in the group that were able to do the talking for me at restaurants and asking for directions and such.

Recommendation: we took a day at Sitges beach and it was awesome. The sand was incredibly warm and soft, the waves just the right height for cooling off, and the meandering, brightly painted streets were overflowing with surprisingly great shops and restaurants.

Vignette: First night in Marseille

Sitting on the kitchen counter, back against the open window frame, and the cool sea breeze carrying in layered sounds of cars, people, drums, and Arabic music in the distance. Feet swinging beneath the counter; bread and cheese in one hand, a glass in the other. The lighting is warm and the vibe comfortable as total strangers from around the world sit around and swap stories of travels through French villages, Spanish romances, Italian jails, and Irish politics. An interesting intersection is found in this little room, close yet removed from the hustle and bustle of the city center.

Hostel Review: London Connection, Marseille

We are using Marseille as sort of our home base for the first leg of our journey, Nice being the second half. It’s a pretty central area with lots of the common Provencal villages just a quick bus or train ride away. The hostel is just a 5 minute walk from the train station and a 5 minute walk from the main street for the city. It’s tuck away up a rambling street that looks just like every other street with no indication of arrival other than a small tab next to the buzzer reading “London Connection.” Located on the second floor, up a very narrow, windy staircase (try that with a big suitcase) it feels somewhat like your sneaking off to Anne Frank’s annex or something. The hostel is more like a modified apartment, with a long narrow hallway that connects bunker rooms on either end, with the manager’s office, kitchen, and bathroom in the middle. It’s really quite nice having a kitchen, Sandra and I are both starting to feel tight for money so it makes it easy to run to the market and cook dinner and keep the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. The bathroom has pretty big main area with mirrored wall, a sink (with hand soap!), two shower stalls, and two toilette rooms. It’s a bit awkward opening the door to go in and wash your hands because you are never quite sure if someone is going to be changing in the middle of the room, but no close encounters so far. The two owners are very personable and interesting characters, they both love to talk for hours about every little inch of everything to see and do in Marseille, how much it costs and how to get there. They also know the surrounding area really well and are great for random secrets of things for exploring Provence.

Hostel Review: Auberge de Junesse, Barcelona

Up a pretty steep and windy hill about a quarter of a mile from the Vallcarca metro station you’ll spot a break in the wall with two huge turquoise painted iron gates. Granted, turquoise being my favorite color, I was biased before I even set foot on the property, but even so, it’s a decent hostel. The outside looks a bit like a Spanish villa meets Greek ruin: tall stately white columns in front of a “5 over 4 and a door.” Walk in and suddenly you’re in a Moroccan paradise. Gold and red and cobalt blue pop out in geometric designs with Arabic inscriptions along the wall. The rooms are just your plain group bunkers, but the nice thing is they have big cubby type lockers to put your luggage in during the day. The common bathrooms are much like your average dorm bathroom with stall showers, sinks, and toilettes. Breakfast in complimentary and threw me back to my elementary/middle school cafeteria days, especially because of the humungous groups of travelling kids that were there while we were there. The location isn’t super central to the main city and there’s not a lot of food nearby, but all of that is just a quick metro ride away. The upside is that it’s a completely adorable hillside village area with tons of young families and elderly people, all of which create a sense of a safer environment than maybe some other places.

Bronser au Soliel

I’m tan! YAY! Butttt….I made the mistake of applying suntan lotion in VERY uneven amounts and am currently about 6 different shades of light, medium, and dark. Guess it just means I need to go back to the beach to even it out!

It WILL work out

I’m considering starting a section for “life lessons,” since I seem to have a lot of them (I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes). But for now, I do feel like remarking on a lesson that seems to have been especially important for me as of late: it will work out. It took several months of hearing it repeatedly from a friend for the point to really hit home, but now that it has…woah. Total change of perspective. I used to spend hours and hours and fathomless amounts of energy worrying about possible outcomes of things that were happening in my life, trying to push and force it to go the direction I wanted and then being completely caught off guard when things didn’t turn out the way I wanted to. Now I feel that rather than spending time worrying about the outcome, take to heart the concept that no matter what happens, things will work out and thus there is no need to worry. Once an understanding of that is gained, it becomes easier to fret less and “deal” more. It allows one to keep a level head and move forward confidently, rather than spazzing out and losing control of the situation. This isn’t to say not to care about life or what happens, but rather, don’t worry about it. Further, this isn’t to say “do nothing” but rather, do what can and needs to be done and know that whatever happens, happens and no matter what, life goes on, and usually for the better, even if we don’t realize it at the time.

Sick

I would like to announce to the world that I am sick. I had a hunch it would happen before I left, not quite sure what basis I had for having a hunch, but I did, and I’m glad because I packed a whole bottle of Clor-tabs and about a week’s worth of decongestants. I’m slightly miserable and have next to no energy, but….whatever. I think my biggest concern at the moment is doing everything possible to get better as fast as possible so that my immune system isn’t down when I get to Uganda. Heaven only knows what diseases I’ll be susceptible to if that’s the case. I don’t even want to think about it…

Stability

exploring and wandering, seeing what I find. I like being in new and different places, having new experiences, meeting new people, etc. But one thing I think I’m beginning to realize is that while I might have an incredibly wandering mind, my body is more inclined towards the stability of consistency. Between five research conferences, a Model United Nations competition, two college visits (technically 4, but two were on the way to conferences), driving home cross country with two more visits along the way, and then barely a week at home…I haven’t been in the same place for more than a week and a half consecutively since the middle of February. That’s a long time to be on the move. For me, at least.
Admittedly, I lamented having to leave, which yes, I know sounds bratty, but whatever. I really wanted to just sit in my room, alone and peaceful without a care in the world. Instead, I’m weaving between airports and train stations, sleeping on the floor, sleeping in bunkbeds, in Paris one day, Barcelona the next, and Marseille shortly thereafter…It’s fine, but it is admittedly taxing.
I find it amusing that once I get to Uganda, it’ll be my longest time in the same place. Interesting, eh? Guess it sort of makes it seem like home…I’m looking forward to it.

Keep Your Eyes to Yourself

I’m still struggling to train myself not to make eye contact with people. It’s a bit funny, because I didn’t think I did very much, I usually don’t notice when I pass people I know because I don’t really focus specifically on any one thing. I guess I make eye contact more than I thought I did though because it’s sure taking effort to keep my eyes to myself. Learning to stop checking out guys is one thing, but what amuses the heck out of me is I didn’t realize how much attention I pay to what people wear. I’m constantly taking note of outfits people are wearing; layers, fabrics, colors, cuts, accessories. Guys and girls alike. Not like “checking them out” but more noting with interest, learning about clothes and styles, and getting ideas.
Amusing, eh? But really not good. We were at a store in Barcelona and this rat pack of two guys and two girls walked in, all of them dressed head to toe like they had just came from an Urban Outfitters photoshoot. It was so interesting to see them in the store, among the throngs of mediocrity. I ended up trying on sunglasses next to one of the girls and noticed some really cool henna on her hand and I turned my head to get a better look at the design, it looked like a peacock with feathers going up each finger. I instinctively turned around, like you do when you feel someone watching you, to find one of the guys standing in the background full on STARING at me, wide-eyed and unblinking as if to say, “stop looking at her.” Good heavens boy, are you really that territorial about probably the most non-homosexual girl on the planet looking at your girl’s henna? I brushed it off and kept moving about the store but it was definitely a lesson learned: keep your eyes to yourself.

I'm not quite sure how to say this

I’m weary of using overly specific examples for sake of sounding b*tchy but I do feel like this has been an important part of my trip. Basically, it’s interesting travelling again after Uganda. I don’t quite have enough clarity of perspective to pin point how I used to travel compared to now, but I do know I can clearly see how my perspective on situations and my surroundings has changed, significantly. I guess one thing I didn’t realize, or care about, at the time was how rough Uganda was, relatively speaking. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, it was my first time in a developing country and I had no standard to compare it to. I also, and I’m not sure how to say this, but I guess I go into “survival” mode pretty easily; I’m not particularly attached to my physical belongings and I don’t at all mind having to go without or be resourceful. I guess maybe one way to put it is that I’m more invested in having the local experience than I am having an imposed experience with all the comforts of home. I also don’t flip out when things are different. Maybe that makes me a bit stoic. I occasionally wonder at my lack of reaction to things, but just as frequently I don’t see the point in exerting the effort at the expense of a level head. I dunno. Even I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I think there is some sense to what I’m trying to say.

Une Promenade

I had a few days in Paris before Sandra was done with her classes, leaving me to my own devices during the day. I’d gone out alone in Uganda a few times, and thus derived some confidence from that, but even so, Paris is not Kampala. In many ways, Paris is much milder; less people coming up and approaching you, people actually obey the traffic signs and stay in their lane, there are fewer beggars, and people actually put their trash in trash bins. Even so, Paris is much larger and I had no cell phone like I did in Uganda. If anything happened to me, that was it, POOF gone, no more Sole Searching.

But that was being ridiculous. I shoved my Mom’s stern, concerned voice out of my head and took the metro up to Les Halles, where I got off and began to wander along the Seine. It had been cold and rainy the whole time I’d been there, but for an hour or so, during my wandering, the clouds cleared and the sun came out just briefly enough to set the banks alight with pastel shades of yellow, pink, blue, and green. I soaked in the beauty of the scene as I meandered under tall trees casting intricate shadows of branches and leaves on the sidewalk. A few fishermen could be spotted and tour boats flowed up and down the river at a causal, lazy pace. I ended up walking around the outside of the Louvre for a bit to grab a few photo shots and was really quite sad to find the Tullerie Gardens were closed. I then headed over to Mussee D’Orsay, one of my favorite art museums for the cool space it’s in and the amazing collection of impressionist work, a genre my mom made sure to immerse me in as a child. Cassatt, Degas, Monet, Manet…all were familiar names from childhood. I specifically wanted to get a shot of the clock on the top floor, it’s an intensely cool clock and I was dying to see how it would photograph (turned out great), in my brief run through the building, I made a quick stop to pay homage to Degas “Le petite ballerina” statue, which was one of my favorites during my ballet years.

Dress Code

A word to the wise: never wear shorts in Paris. Never. It was our last night in Paris and the group was finally done with their intense and exhausting courses and itching to get out and go do something. As the group was getting ready, I realized how incredibly inadequately packed I was for the European stint of my trip. I had tried to make the clothes I packed as compatible with both legs of the trip as possible, but I seem to have paid extra attention to the Africa bit. I stared down at my suitcase filled with cargo pants, long basic skirts, plain tee shirts, and hiking sandals in bemused frustration. Shorts. I had shorts for the beach. I had no nice shirts, but I had packed one that was a little less not nice than the rest. My sandals wouldn’t work, but my shower flip flops just might. No jewelry, no straightener or curling iron for my hair. When the group came into the room, one of the girls actually asked if I was going to get ready or not, even though I had already made my best attempt. Long story short, we wandered around the Bastille area searching for a discoteque, to no avail, and ended up on a very crowded and very sketchy street. I soon realized that every guy in the place was staring at my legs and I had never felt more like a piece of meat in my life. And I don’t even have nice legs. They’re these pale, flubbery, unshapely, things that REALLY should not be publicly exposed. After hours of wandering aimlessly, the group split off and I went with the portion that had decided to head home. At 2am, even if we did find a good place, I figured it would be full of enough sketchy people to make it not worth the money or the while. We ended up getting followed by two unrelenting guys on the way the taxi stand, one of which would not get away from me and when I didn’t respond to his questions, credit carded me. And it was more than a simple hand graze. I didn’t freak out, like the other girls in the group, who quite honestly, quickly began to annoy me with their astonishment and exasperation with the situation and proceeded to complain about every little thing. Chill girls. Focus. Get a taxi, get home. No sense complaining or freaking out. (Fingers crossed they aren’t reading this)

Nonetheless. Never wear shorts out in Paris.

La Grande Entrance

After a whirlwind of a chaotic and unfortunately stressful week, I found myself at the Orlando airport with my parents in tears as I set off for…an indefinite period of time, seeing as I have yet to book my return ticket since I’m not quite sure when I’m coming back or where in the world I will be at the time. Blushing with embarrassment as they hovered near the glass windows behind security, waving hugely and incessantly, I filed through the masses and found myself flung into the open space near the tram. This was it. From here on out, I was alone. Feeling slightly naked but independent I stepped forward with what felt like especial strength. I’ve dealt with being alone, in numerous senses of the word, enough in the last two years that I’ve become somewhat impervious to the sentiment of loneliness and find myself rather grateful for the solitude of my own mind and the sense of confidence I’ve garnered.
A groggy few hours later, I and I was at JFK and longing to hop a cab and explore the city. It felt so strange to be so near, yet so far from a city I’d found easy to enjoy and be myself in. Maybe I just missed shopping in SoHo though. Regardless, after a wander over to baggage claim (I’d bought two separate tickets and had to switch airlines) and a three hour wait for my flight, during which time I found the SWEETEST little Indian toddler who kept wandering over to my seat outside Au Bon Pain. She had the brightest eyes, which would completely light up every time I made eye contact with her and then her whole face would break into a smile…it amused me to no end, little kids are such a thrill, they have such fascinating personalities, so open, raw, untainted…
I couldn’t sleep on the flight, even though I hadn’t slept the night before due to delayed packing and anxiety, and after Slumdog Millionaire, a few episodes of Sex and the City, and a playlist of Kanye, Kid Cudi, and T-Pain, I abruptly found myself in Dublin. Two weeks in Ireland two years ago, and I’d never set foot in Dublin. I’ve heard I hadn’t missed much, but I again found myself feeling cooped up in the airport, longing to explore what was outside it. It was a rather awkward and boring stint, the waiting area was full of briefcase and newspaper laden business men and I had no idea where or what to look at while I waited. During a time killing exploration, a lady approached me asking what gate her flight was at since it wasn’t printed on the ticket. I noted the name of the city and asked if it was in Germany. Her response was, “that’s what YOU call it,” I quickly corrected myself with, “err, Deutschland, sorry!” but she still seemed annoyed and quickly left look elsewhere for help.
Finally the plane took off and I hovered near the window waiting for sight of Paris. An interesting wave of relief washed over me as the plane touched down and I was again back in a city I’d come to love a long four years ago. My last trip marked a major turning point in my life, and I was curious to see what it would be like this time around. I gulped down my nervousness as I pulled out the sheet of paper I’d printed at the last second with a paragraph of directions and small sketch of a street map with a circle where the hotel was supposed to be. That was it, I’d flown a quarter of the way around the world and had nothing but a sheet of paper filled with unfamiliar names and roads that would hopefully get me to my destination. The paper seemed heavy in my hands.
The train seemed to take forever but I managed to find the stop that switched me to the metro. I found the metro and got on the correct direction. Two small victories in my book. Getting off the metro was another story. As I followed sign after sign marked “sortie” I had to tackle staircase after staircase with my heavy suitcase, which seemed heavier with each long haul up a set of stairs. I’d been rather proud of myself for packing just one suitcase, and a regular sized one at that, for two months in a place where I had to bring pretty much every life necessity, and then some, with me. I quickly began going through my suitcase in my head and eliminating all the things that suddenly seemed a burden. Did I really need to pack a scented candle for the room (I would have killed for an air freshener last time)? Did I really need TWO towels? Were four softballs for the neighborhood kids too much? Did I really need shampoo AND conditioner? Oh well. Many, many, infinite thanks to the people who had the kindness to help me up that labyrinth of stairs.
I emerged on street level and was affronted by a whizzing bustle of cars and horns and pedestrians, cafes, restaurants, buildings…it all seemed to whirl around me as I stood there with my suitcase in one hand and the rolled up piece of paper in the other. Rue D’Alesia. Ok, found it. But which way? A droit? Ou au gauche? Droit. Go. And I walked. And walked, and walked. If I passed Rue des Plantes, I’d gone too far. How far away could it be? What the heck scale was this map too? In passing, I caught the eye of a lady in a deserted bouglangerie and made a U-turn to go back and ask directions. Good, she understood my accent, and I understood hers. As much as I hate the Parisian accent, you can’t hate its unornamented understandability. She laughed a bit as she told me I would not find the street I was looking for if I continued in the direction I was going and had a ways to go, the opposite direction, before I found it. Pulling deep for energy, I retraced my steps. At a huge circle round that split off 5 different ways, I went the wrong way twice before finding the correct road. Where were all the street signs in this city? Just give me a road name! PLEASE! Completely exhausted, I crashed on a bench with a bunch of old people to try to regain some strength before resuming my search. I was quickly reminded that the French do not make eye contact as I watched a man stroll by on a really interesting bike. I forget the details of it, I think one wheel was bigger than the other, and received an irked glance as I observed with interest. Whoops.
I got up to continue searching. By this time, I had two pesky blisters emerging on my suitcase hand, and the folded edges of the paper were frayed from my fidgeting. Just a bit more. After passing three other hotels, I found it. Now what? I’d arrived early and Sandra was still in classes. I was planning on crashing on the floor, but sneaking in my luggage was still a piece we hadn’t nailed down. Oh well. Here goes nothing. I walked in and waited to be addressed. I said I was looking for a friend but didn’t know what room she was in. The lady looked it up and directed me to the third floor. Of course I knew she wasn’t there, but I played dumb anyway. I waltzed up with my luggage and found the cleaning lady closing the door on the room I was trying to get into. Shoot. Leaving my luggage in the hall, I went back down. What to do, what to do….well, might as well give it a shot. I told the lady my friend wasn’t in the room and I thought she might still be in her class and could I have a key to the room so I could drop off some things I had in my luggage for her. With a simple nod, the lady handed me a key! Sweet, I was in.
I entered the room and found it eerily still and empty. I surveyed the existing explosion of luggage and plopped down on one of the beds. Shower. I needed a shower. I organized myself in the bathroom and reached to turn on the shower. The hand held shower head was resting on one of the ledges and without thinking, I pulled the lever to turn it on. It came to life as it jumped off the ledge, spraying a swirl of water in every possible direction. My first reaction was to jump back, away from it, but I caught myself and forced myself forward, towards the spraying snake. I grabbed it, turned it off, and surveyed the damage. The floor was glisteningly wet, the walls were dotted with droplettes, and the door had streaking trails of water from top to bottom. Whoops. Good thing I packed two towels after all!
After the highest water pressure shower I’ve ever had and three pairs of wet socks I had to change because I kept stepping in the one wet spot on the carpet (if you know me, you know I make the same mistake over and over again before doing something constructive about it), I crashed on the bed and completely passed out. I awoke with a confused start to the sound of a slammed door and two very confused, unfamiliar faces peering at me. I was incredibly groggy and it took me a second to think of the right questions to get the information I needed and put the puzzle pieces together. The girls were with the study abroad group, but had switched rooms with Sandra and Alice and didn’t exactly know what room they were in, but it was probably either the 3rd or the 6th floor. They seemed a bit disgruntled by the upset in their day, but were polite about it nonetheless. I got out as quickly as I could get my stumbling self out and headed back down to the front desk, who of course told me they could be of no further assistance. I resigned to waiting. Thankfully, Sandra arrived soon enough and after a round of introductions, I was led to the correct room, right next door to the room I had previously made my Goldilocks-esque appearance. Finally, I was officially in Paris.